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Humorous  Monologues 

ORIGINAL  MONOLOGUES  DESIGNED  FOR  THE 
USE  OF  THE  AMATEUR  AND  THE 
PROFESSIONAL  MONOLOGIST 


PARTICULARLY   SUITABLE   FOR  LADIES 


BY 

MAYME  RIDDLE  BITNEY 

AUTHOR  OF 

"Monologues,  Graz'e  and  Gay,"  "Monologues  for  Young 
Folks"  etc. 


CHICAGO 
T.  S.  DENISON  &  COMPANY 
Publishers 


Copyright,  1906,  by  T.  S.  Denison 


MADE  IN  U.  S.  A. 


Humorous  Monologues 


I 

> 

HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES.  3 
CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Algebra  and  Class  Parties   47 

Aspiring  Dishwasher,  An   35 

Assisting  Uncle  Joe   91 

At  Eight  O'clock   97 

Aunt  Dinah  or  Matermony   107 

Aunt  Jerusha  Visits  the  City   63 

Back  in  Squashville   42 

Before  the  ^Milliner's  Mirror   32 

Behind  the  Palms   75 

Breaking  the  News  Gently   54 

Chance  Meeting,  A   67 

Digesting  the  Newspaper   71 

Grandma's  Photygraft  Album   23 

In  Grandma's  Day   39 

Lapse  of  Memory,  A   82 

Little  Peter's  Parley   104 

Looking  After  the  Baby   11 

Miss  Dorothy  Entertains  the  Minister   20 

Mollie's  Eulogy  on  Country  Life   56 

Morning  Call,  A   7 

Morning  Ride,  A   59 

Mrs.  Snodgrass  Reads  the  Locals   15 

New  Lease  of  Life,  A   51 

Results  of  Christmas  Shopping   27 

Sad  Fate  of  Mrs.  Mehetable  Medders,  The   103 

Study  in  Physiognomy,  A   109 

Such  a  Joke!   105 

Unfortunate  Bessie    45 

Woman  with  a  History,  A   108 


i 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


A    FEW    SUGGESTIONS    REGARDING  THE 
RENDITION  OF  THE  FOLLOWING 
MONOLOGUES. 


The  success  of  a  monologue  depends  almost  en- 
tirely upon  the  ability  of  the  monologist  to  sink  her 
own  personality  and  be  the  character  which  she 
wishes  to  represent.  By  tone,  manner,  gestures,  at- 
titude and  facial  expression,  she  must  bring  to  her 
audience  a  finished  picture  of  the  character  she  im- 
personates, a  picture  perfect  not  only  in  outline,  but 
in  detail. 

The  monologist  must  be  a  student  of  human  na- 
ture and  knciv  the  characters  to  be  represented.  Es- 
pecially is  this  true  in  being  able  to  bring  out  little 
humorous  peculiarities  of  expression,  accent,  gesture 
and  dialect.  Most  of  the  following  monologues  are 
intended  to  be  humorous,  but  much  of  the  humorous 
effect  upon  the  audience  rests  in  the  manner  in  which 
they  are  presented.  Characters  must  be  brought 
out,  as  a  general  thing,  in  a  bright,  energetic  man- 
ner, but  not  overdrawn.  In  some  of  the  selections 
there  is  little  call  for  dramatic  action,  the  work  rest- 
ing mostly  upon  intonation,  expression  and  general 
attitudes.  In  others,  as  "Before  the  Milliner's  Mir- 
ror," one  can  do  considerable  acting,  posing  before 
the  mirror,  twisting,  turning,  indeed  almost  contin- 
uous action  as  she  speaks. 

Then,  by  intonation  and  inflection  one  must  be 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


5 


able  to  make  her  audience  understand  the  unwritten 
lines  of  the  conservation  and  sustain  the  dialogue 
in  monologue  form.  All  the  included  selections  are 
intended  to  be  given  by  only  one  person,  though 
some  are  written  in  dialogue  form  to  give  the  mono- 
logist  a  clearer  conception  of  the  conversation.  In 
these  selections,  the  impersonator  has  double  and 
sometimxcs  triple  labor — there  must  be  quick  changes 
from  one  character  to  another  and  the  parts  must 
be  so  well  sustained  as  to  keep  the  characters  clearly 
pictured  to  the  audience.  It  is  best  not  to  attempt 
such  monologues  until  one  has  had  successful  ex- 
perience with  the  one-character  selections. 

In  some  monologues  no  extra  costume  is  required; 
in  others,  as  ''Grandma's  Photygraft  Album,''  the 
selection  is  much  more  effective  if  the  impersonator 
is  dressed  as  an  old-fashioned  grandma.  Costume 
can  also  be  used  effectively  in  ''Aunt  Jerusha's  Visit 
to  the  City,"  a  "IMorning  Call,"  and  others.  Some 
of  the  monologues,  as  ''Miss  Doroth}-  Entertains 
the  Minister,"  and  "Back  in  -Squashville,"  can  be 
given  either  by  juveniles  or  by  older  girls,  persona- 
tinof  a  child.  "In  Grandma's  Dav,"  "Als^febra  and 
class  Parties"  and  "A  Morning  Ride"  were  written 
especially  for  girls  past  the  juvenile  age.  Most  of 
the  others  are  intended  for  adults.  "Assisting  Uncle 
Joe,"  is  intended  to  be  given  by  an  adult,  imper- 
sonating the  part  of  Teddy,  as  well  as  the  two  other 
characters.  Some  of  the  selections  v^'ill  be  more  ap- 
preciated by  the  audience  if  a  few  words  of  introduc- 
tion are  given  by  the  monologist,  stating  Avhere  or 
under  what  conditions  the  scene  takes  place. 

Few  stage  properties  are  required  and  those  needed 
can  easily  be  seen  from  the  run  of  the  selection. 

As  a  last  suggestion- — be  natural  to  the  characters 
being  impersonated,  making  the  audience  see,  not  the 
speaker,  but  the  represented  individual. 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES 


A  MORNING  CALL. 

Aunt  Caroline  Thompkinson  ''runs  hi''  to  discuss 
the  coming  event  of  Tildy  Axn^s  marriage. 

Aunt  Caroline.  Dear  me,  Tildy  Ann,  an'  so 
you're  goin'  to  be  married  next  week.  An'  to  a  wid- 
ower, too.  I  do  hope  you're  doin'  well  an'  will  be 
happy.  It  seems  like  so  many  marriages  do  turn  out 
bad  nowada3^s  that  it  most  makes  me  'fraid  to  see 
folks  tie  up  any  m.ore.  Now  there  was  Henrietty 
Rawlins — she  that  maried  Jake  Holcomb.  I  warned 
'er  'bout  Jake,  but  she  wouldn't  pay  no  heed.  She 
fell  in  love  with  'im  'cause  he  was  sech  a  likely  hand 
at  talkin' — kep'  'er  laughin'  all  the  time.  W'y,  she 
said  Jake  could  tell  things  so  funny  that  it'd  mos' 
make  the  tombstones  in  a  graveyard  die  a  laughin'. 
An'  I  Jes'  said,  ''How  much  does  he  ever  earn  a 
day  a  tellin'  funn}^  stories?"  ''Nothin',  of  course," 
she  says,  an'  I  says,  "Wal,  that'll  go  a  long  ways 
towards  buyin'  meals  an'  clothes  after  you're  mar- 
ried." Poor  girl,  I  gess  she's  found  out  it's  tnie,  fer 
Jake  sets  'round  town  amusin'  folks  with  funny 
stories,  an'  she  ain't  had '  a  new  dress  fer  two  years. 

An'  so  you're  goin'  to  be  married,  Tildy  Ann? 
Wal,  I  do  hope  you'll  be  savesome  an'  not  waste 
things.  I  think  a  wasteful  wife  mus'  be  av/ful 
wearin'  on  a  man.    Now  there's  mv  nephew,  John 

7 


8 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


Russell.  He  was  out  here  to  see  me  a  couple  a 
years  ago  an'  he  says  to  me,  says  he,  '*Oh,  Aunt  Caro- 
line, I'm  goin'  to  marry  the  nicest  girl  you  ever  see, 
an'  perty  as  a  picter.  All  that's  a  worryin'  me  is  that 
I  can't  afford  to  give  'er  all  the  nice  things  she's 
used  to  havin'  at  home.  W'y,  she  spends  a  thousand 
dollars  a  year  on  'er  dresses."  Wal,  that  was  too 
much  fer  me  an'  I  jes'  says,  says  I,  ''Nephew  John, 
it  ain't  none  of  my  bizness,  but  I'll  give  you  my 
ideas  'bout  it.  If  she  spends  a  thousand  dollars  a 
year  on  'er  dresses  I'd  marry  'er  dressmaker."  But 
he  didn't,  he  married  that  spendsome  girl  an'  I've 
heerd  that  he's  mos'  worried  to  death  tryin'  to  keep 
'er  in  money. 

An'  so  you're  goin'  to  marry  a  widower,  Tildy 
Ann?  I  do  hope  he'll  think  a  lot  of  you  an'  not 
alius  be  a  moonin'  round  'bout  his  ferst  wife.  That 
reminds  me  of  Sallie  Newberry.  She  said  that  if 
she  ever  was  to  marry  a  widower  she'd  git  one  that 
had  bin  real  mean  to  his  ferst  wife,  'cause  she'd 
alius  noticed  that  the  meaner  a  man  hed  bin  to  his 
ferst  wife  the  better  he'd  be  to  his  second  one  to 
sort  of  make  up  fer  it.  Somehow  I  never  did  take 
much  fancy  to  widowers—but  mebbe  this  feller  you're 
goin'  to  git  is  all  right.  Now,  widows  is  diff'rent — 
it  does  beat  all  how  sort  of  attractive  most  of  'em 
be  an'  how  many  chances  they  has  to  git  married 
agin.  That  makes  me  think  of  Simon  Jessup,  over 
to  Loontown.  Soon  as  Angeline  Barlow  lost  'er 
husban'  Simon  made  up  his  mind  he'd  try  an'  git 
'er,  but  he  didn't  want  to  be  too  hasty,  so  he  made 
up  his  mind  he'd  wait  awhile  till  she  sort  of  got  over 
her  spell  of  feelin's  fer  her  husban'  some  an' — what 
you  s'pose?  Ferst  thing  he  knowed  Angeline  was 
married  to  Jim  Policy,  an'  Simon,  he  says,  "Wal, 
I've  lernt  one  thing — when  you  take  a  shine  to  a 
widder  don't  set  roun'  an'  wait  fer  'er  to  fergit  'er 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


9 


ferst  man,  fer  while  yer  waitin'  some  other  feller'U 
walk  ofi  with  the  widder." 

I  s'pose  you're  real  g"lad,  Tildy  Ann,  that  it's  all 
settled  'bout  your  weddin'  and  so  forth.  I  heerd 
quite  a  while  ago  that  this  feller  was  comin'  to  your 
house,  but  some  said  tlie}^  didn't  know  whether  he 
was  after  you  er  your  mother.  Yes,  your  mother's 
real  young-  lookin'  an'  peart  fer  'er  years  an'  a  great 
worker.  Now,  that  remin's  me  of  Isaac  Harris  when 
he  was  courtin'  Lizy  Barlow.  He'd  bin  goin'  there 
fer  quite  a  spell  an'  at  las',  one  night,  he  asked  Lizy 
to  marry  'im.  An'  Lizy,  she  said  she  was  willin', 
but  he'd  hev  to  ask  'er  mother  ferst.  So  Isaac  he 
went  out  in  the  tother  room  where  'er  mother  was 
an'  talked  quite  a  spell  an'  bimeby  he  come  back  a 
lookin'  real  contint,  an'  says  he,  "Wal,  Lizy,  I  asked 
yer  mother  like  ye  said  I  should."  "An'  w^hat'd  she 
say?"  says  Lizy.  "Wal,"  says  Isaac,  ''she  accepted 
me  an'  we're  goin'  to  be  married  in  two  weeks." 
I  gess  Lizy  was  quite  cut  up  'bout  it,  but  she  healed 
'er  sorrers  by  takin'  Lem  Watkins  soon  after — an' 
made  a  better  match'n  'er  mother  did,  too. 

That's  real  perty  lace  you're  a  knittin,'  Tildy  Ann. 
I  s'pose  it's  to  trim  up  some  yer  trosse^^-o  with.  I 
alius  did  think  that  knit  lace  is  han'sum  an'  it's  terri- 
ble wearin'.  My  sister's  stepdarter  over  to  Steb- 
bin's  Corners  is  an  awful  hand  to  knit  lace — w'y,  'er 
father  says  she's  so  used  to  knittin'  that  if  she  ain't 
got  nothin'  else  to  knit  she'll  knit  'er  brows.  I  s'pose 
you  hev  got  mos'  your  sewin'  done  up?  Done  much 
hemstitchin'  er  jes'  plain  hemimin'?  You  don't  say? 
Even  hem-stitched  your  sheets  an'  pilly-sliDs?  Wal, 
they  look  nice,  but  my  niece  down  to  Redficld  sent  me 
some  hem-stitch  ones  an'  I  don't  see  as  we  sleep  no 
better  in  'em  than  in  common  m^achine-sewed  ones. 
I  tell  Hiram  that  he  snores  jes'  as  loud  in  the  one  as 
he  does  in  the  others. 

I  do  hope,  Tildy  Ann,  that  this  here  w^idower  of 


10 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES, 


yourn  has  got  real  good  health.  What?  Troubled 
some  with  dyspepsy?  La,  that  is  too  bad.  My,  I 
ruther  live  with  a  tombstone  than  a  dyspeptik  man, 
xause  even  though  tombstones  is  dreatful  melancholy 
they're  likewise  silent  an'  uncomplainin'.  Now,  that 
reminds  me  of  Sarah  Jane  Porter.  Some  one  asked 
'er  the  tother  day  how  she  was  gettin'  along  an'  she 
said  she  was  troubled  mos'  to  death  with  the  dys- 
pepsy. *Wy,"  the  new  minister's  wife  says  to  'er, 
*'you  don't  look  a  bit  as  if  yer  troubled  with  dys- 
pepsy." "Oh,"  says  Sarah  Jane,  says  she,  'Tm  only 
troubled  with  it  when  I'm  to  home— it's  my  husban' 
that's  got  it.'^ 

Yes,  I  do  think  it's  real  nice,  Tildy  Ann,  that 
you're  goin'  to  git  settled  down  in  life — you're  sure 
old  enough  an'  I've  alius  said  that  you're  an  awful 
good  girl  if  you  ain't  got  no  great  killin'  amount  of 
beauty.  An'  I  mus'  say  I  ain't  never  et  no  better 
fruitcake  than  you  make,  Tidy  Ann,  though  it 
won't  do  you  much  good  as  long  as  3^our  man's  a 
dyspeptik  an'  I  s'pose  can't  eat  cake. 

Wal,  they's  one  good  thing  'bout  it — I  heerd  he 
ain't  got  no  children  left  to  home  to  worry  you  inter 
your  grave.  I  alius  said  no  girl  a  mine  should  wear 
'erself  out  bein'  a  stepmother  an'  you're  so  easy, 
Tildy  Ann,  that  they'd  walk  over  you  awful.  An' 
I  hope  your  husban',  when  you  git  'im,  will  continue 
to  "make"  of  you — it  seems  like  men  are  dreatful 
indiff'rent,  lots  of  'em,  to  their  wives  now  days. 
What'd  you  s'pose?  Mary  Harmon,  that  married 
that  city  feller,  said  she's  goin'  to  begin  waitin'  on 
'er  husban'  at  table  'cause  mebbe  if  she  was  waitin'- 
girl  he'd  flirt  with  'er.  Ain't  that  dreatful?  Wal, 
I  mus'  be  goin'.  I  jes'  run  in  not  expectin'  to  stay 
this  momin',  but  I'm  comin'  over  and  set  the  after- 
noon 'fore  the  weddin'  so's  to  hear  'bout  things. 
You  can  depend,  I'm  one  your  best  well-wishers. 
Tildy  Ann. 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES, 


11 


LOOKING  AFTER  THE  BABY„ 

Scene:    A  parlor,  in  which  a  Vassar  Girl  receives 
a  caller  and  looks  after  her  sister  s  baby. 

Vassar  Girl.  Of  course,  dear  Evelyn,  go  right 
along  to  your  club  meeting.  I  shall  be  delighted  to 
look  after  the  baby.  What?  You  are  afraid  some- 
thing will  happen  to  the  darling?  As  if  I,  a  Vassar 
graduate,  am  not  capable  of  caring  for  an  eighteen- 
months-old  child  a  couple  of  hours.  Fie  on  you, 
Evelyn,  for  having  so  little  confidence  in  your  ac- 
complished sister.  What?  Taking  care  of  a  baby 
is  very  different  from  getting  a  lesson  in  Greek? 
Oh,  certainly,  but  I  am  sure  babies  are  not  more 
wearing  on  the  constitution  than  are  Greek  verbs. 
Besides,  my  dear  sister,  you  must  remember  I  know 
something  about  babies — I  Vv-as  a  baby  once  myself. 
Why,  certainly,  Fll  keep  my  eye  on  her  all  of  the 
time — both  eyes,  in  fact.  Do  put  on  your  wraps 
and  hie  away  to  your  club.  No,  I  haven't  anything 
else  to  do  this  afternoon  and  am.  perfectly  willing 
to  devote  myself  to  the  care  of  your  precious  cherub. 
What?  Give  her  a  quarter  of  a  cup  of  boiling 
water — mercy,  let  her  drink  it  boiling  hot?  Oh,  you 
hadn't  finished  your  directions?  Pardon  me=  Oh,  I 
understand — one-fourth  of  a  cup  of  boiling  w^ater 
in  three- fourths  of  a  cup  of  milk?  Certainly — and 
not  give  her  any  cake  or  sweetmeats?  No,  of  course 
not — ^they  are  perilous  to  an  infant's  health. 

Now  go  on  to  3'Our  meeting — you  know  it  is  not 
stylish  to  be  too  late.    What?    Do  not  walk  the 


12 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


door  with  her  if  she  cries?  No,  she  is  getting*  too 
heavy  to  walk  the  floor  v/ith — I  prefer  to  rock  her. 
Yes,  it  surely  is  sad  that  the  nurse  has  to  be  away 
this  afternoon,  but  I  am  quite  capable  of  taking  her 
place.  Good-bye.  Yes,  go  on.  Dear  me,  if  it  ever 
does  happen  that  I  have  a  child  of  my  own 
I  hope  I  shall  not  be  as  fussy  over  it  as  Evelyn 
is  over  this  baby.  {To  the  baby.)  There,  now,  she  is 
going  to  be  Auntie's  dear  little  honey  sweetness,  isn't 
she,  and  not  do  anything  naught}^  while  its  mamma 
is  gone?  Does  little  tootsey-wootsey  darling  want  to 
look  at  this  pretty  book?  Baby  look  at  bookie  while 
Auntie  writes  a  letter — that's  a  goody  girlie.  Oh, 
my,  no,  you  must  not  touch  the  ink.  No,  no,  baby — 
can't  you  understand  that  is  ink  and  will  spoil  the 
baby  and  the  carpet  and  everything?  Here,  sweet- 
heartie,  you  p\2.y  with  this  funn}-  ball.  That  is  right 
— ^now  Auntie  can  write  a  letter.  There  goes  the 
bell.  I  wonder  ii  it  is  a  caller?  No,  no,  baby,  do 
not  touch  that  paper  knife — you  will  put  out  one  of 
your  itsey-bitsey  eyes.  (Addresses  as  if  someone 
entered.)  Ah,  good  afternoon,  Mr.  Gilette,  I  am 
glad  to  see  you.  Take  this  easy  chair.  My  sister 
has  gone  to  a  club  meeting,  the  nurse  has  gone  to 
a  funeral— -the  third  time  chat  particular  aunt  has 
died,  I'm  positive—and  I  am  taking  care  of  the  baby. 
But  she  is  the  best  little  tot  in  the  world  and  no 
trouble  at  all— oh,  petsey,  don't  pull  those  books 
down.  No,  no,  mustn't!  Here,  come  see  Auntie's 
watch.  {Action  as  if  shozving  zvatch  to  baby.)  Yes, 
Mr.  Giiette,  this  is  delightful  weather  and  I  am  glad 
to  be  here  to  enjoy  it.  Yes,  I  am  relieved  to  be 
through  college — though,  of  course,  I  had  no  end 
of — ^no,  no,  darling,  you  can't  take  Auntie's  watch 
off.  No,  no,  Auntie  is  afraid  you  will  break  it.  Yes, 
Mr.  Giiette,  I  went  tc  hear  the  lecture  on  Savonarola 
— it  was  very  good,  so  comprehensive  and  intellectual. 
T  think — oh.  no,  little  baby,  mustn't  try  to  climb  op 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


13 


that  chair.  You  will  tall.  Here,  take  Auntie*s 
pocketbook.  Such  a  nice  pocketbook.  And  how  are 
you  getting  along  with  your  entomology,  Mr.  Gilette? 
Oh,  how  interesting!  Do  you  know,  I  saw  a  bug 
the  other  day  that  made  me  think  of  you— oh,  dear 
me,  no,  I  don't  mean  it  looked  like  you— -but  it  w^as 
50  queer  looking  that  I  wondered  if  you  were  ac- 
quainted with  it.  It  was — bless  me,  that  precious 
baby  has  the  ink !  No,  no,  love}^  don't— oh,  there 
it  goes  down  her  dress  and  on  the  carpet.  Evelyn 
will  think  I  am  a  poor  baby  tender.  Here,  Auntie 
will  take  it  up  wdth  this  blotter.  No,  of  course,  she 
isn't  naughty,  yir.  Gilette,  she  is  only  of  a  bright, 
investigating  turn  of  mind  and  v/ants  to  explore 
things.  Now,  little  darling  must  sit  on  the  rug  and 
play  with  Auntie's  mone}- — put  it  all  in  a  nicey-nice 
row.  There,  that's  a  sweet  little  lady.  What  w^ere  you 
saying  about  constitutional  improvement  in  Russia, 
Mr.  Gilette?  Oh,  indeed!  Do  you  know  I  want  to 
do  some  more  work  in  sociology.  I  think  the  mod 
ern  industrial  and  social  inequalities  are  very — oh, 
heavens,  that  darling  baby  has  some  money  in  her 
mouth.  Spit  it  out,  bab}'.  Spittle  nassy  mone}^  out — 
dear  me,  she  is  choking!  What  shall  vve  do?  Hold 
her  with  her  head  down  so  the  money  will  fall  out? 
You  hold  her  up,  IMr.  Gilette.  and  I'll  pat  her  on 
the  back.  Oh,  there,  it's  out!  Oh,  you  little  prt- 
dous  (pretends  to  Jiug  baby),  yon  most  scared  Auntie 
to  death.  There,  there,  don't  cry.  Auntie  will  bv-bv 
the  little  honey-sweetness.  (Rocks  back  O'ld  forth 
ill  chair,  action  as  if  holding  baby.) 

Oh,  I  read  such  an  interesting  article  on  the  Del- 
phinorhynchus  yesterday,  ^Ir.  Gilette.  I  am  sure 
you  would  be  interested  in — what  is  it  babykins? 
What  does  the  'ittle  girlie  want?  What  are  you 
saying]^  Oh,  of  course!  Me-e-e-e  means  milk.  The 
little  pet  i?-  hungry  of  conrse.  If  you  will  just  ring 
the  bell,  please,  Mr.  Gilette.   Thank  you.  (Addresses 


14 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


as  if  maid  entered.)  Mary,  bring  me  one-fourth  of 
a  cup  of  milk  in — now  what  did  Evelyn  say?  Was 
it  one-fourth  of  a  cup  of  milk  and  three-fourths  wa- 
ter or — which  do  you  think  you  should  ^ve  the 
more  of,  Mr.  Giiette,  milk  or  water?  What?  will 
{Laughs.)  If  I  am  like  the  modern  milkman  I'll  use 
more  water  than  milk?  No,  I  remember  now,  Eve- 
lyn said  one-fourth  water  and  three-fourths  milk — 
boiling  water,  Mary.  Yes,  wq  went  to  the  play  at 
the  Grand  Theater  the  other  night.  I  don't  wonder 
it  has  been  so  successful.  Mr.  Wingate  said  that 
— oh,  here  comes  the  milk  for  Auntie's  girlie.  Thank 
you,  Mary.  {Action  as  if  holding  cup  for  baby  to 
drink.)  Did  I  ever  tell  you,  Mr.  Gilette,  about  the 
time  we  played  that  dreadful  prank  on  our  Latin 
professor?  No?  Well,  we  were — there,  doUie,  the 
milk  is  all  gonie-gone.  Baby  go  play  with  the 
blocks  now.  Well,  we  were  put  out  because  we  had 
to  do  extra  work  on  a  Latin  essay  when  v/e  wanted 
to — oh,  goodness  gracious — if  that  little  dove  hasn't 
fallen  oil  the  chair.  {Runs  and  makes  as  if  picking 
baby  up.)  There,  there,  there— don't  cry!  TDid  um 
hurt  um's  dear  little  headie?  Never  mind.  Auntie 
will  love  her  baby.  {Walks  back  and  forth,  action 
as  if  rocking  baby  in  her  arms  and  sings  to  the 
tune  of  'Webb":) 

Oh,  Auntie's  little  darling  is  almost,  almost  dead, 
She  fell  off  on  the  floorie  and  nearly  broke  her  head. 

Oh,  must  you  go,  Mr.  Gilette?  I  am  ever  so  glad 
you  called,  but  I  fear  you  have  not  appreciated  hav- 
ing such  a  dose  of  baby  tending.  Oh,  thank  you! 
Good  afternoon.  There,  there,  Auntie's  baby.  Go 
to  sleepie. 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


15 


MRS.    SNODGRASS    READS    THE  LOCALS. 

Mrs.  Snodgil\ss.  Now,  paw,  ain't  you  most  ready 
to  set  down  an'  listen  to  the  paper?  What's  that? 
Where's  your  slippers?  Fer  mercy  sakes,  Hiram 
Snodgrass,  where'd'  you  s'pose  they  be?  They  ain't 
never  bin  any  place  when  you  wanted  'em  but  settin' 
right  in  that  chimbly  corner  fer  nine  years.  If  you 
had  some  wives,  Hiram  Snodgrass,  you'd  haf  to 
ask  where  they  was  an'  haf  to  hunt  fer  'em,  too,  but 
I  ain't  that  kind,  to  let  things  lay  round  helter- 
skelter,  hitter-miss.  A  place  fer  ev'rything  an  ev'ry- 
thing  in  its  place,  is  my  motto.  Now,  you  ready  to 
listen?  What?  Where's  the  footstool?  Now,  you 
don't  s'pose  it's  down  cellar  in  the  churn,  do  you, 
Hiram?  Can't  you  see  it  settin'  right  under  that 
winder  shelf,  where  it's  bin  settin'  ev'ry  since  we  got 
married?  What?  You're  ready  to  listen  now?  AH 
right.  I  s'pose  you  want  the  locals  first.  (Reads  in 
a  slow,  monotonous  tone:) 

Jonas  Bardell  is  wearing  a  broad  smile  nowdays, 
caused  by  the  arrival  of  a  new  son,  who  came  to  his 
house  last  week. 

Wearin'  a  broad  smile,  indeed !  Mebbe  he  is,  but 
I  bet  his  wife  ain't,  fer  this  makes  their  seventh,  an' 
the  last  one's  only — lem.me  see — (thinks).  What 
I  stoppin'  fer?  I'm  jes'  figgerin'  up  how  old  that 
las'  baby  of  Bardell's  ■  is.  It  was  las'  June  that 
Cousin  Susan  Tucker's  stepmother  was  here  from 
Pennsyivanie,  wa'n't  it?  Um— hum — wal.  then  that 
las'  one's  only  twenty-one  months  old.  An'  now 
poor  Mary  Bardell's  got  anuther  to  take  keer  of,  an* 


16 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


them  poor  as  church  mice.  Seems  like  things  don't 
git  divided  up  very  even  in  this  world — there  was 
Hanson^s  folks,  with  plenty  of  money  to  pervide  fer 
theirs,  that's  lost  the  only  baby  they  had,  an'  here's 
them  poor  Bardells  got  their  seventh — it's  jes'  like 
the  Bible  says,  to  them  that  hath  shall  be  given 
more  an'  to  them  that  ain't  got  nuthin'll  be  took 
away  what  they've  got.  Humph,  if  Jonas  Bardell's 
a  grinnin'  over  that  baby  I  should  think  he'd  be 
'shamed  to  let  anybody  find  it  but!  Yes,  I'm  goin' 
to  read  some  more — Ian',  you're  so  impatient,  Hiram. 
{Reads:) 

Henry  Hosmer  is  entertaining  a  visitor  this  week 
in  the  shape  of  a  Job's  comforter  on  the  back  of  his 
neck. 

What?  No,  it  ain't  Job  anybody  that's  a  visitin' 
there — it's  a  bile  on  Henry's  neck.  Yes,  it  said  a 
visitor,  but  it's  a  Job's  comferter — don't  you  know 
them  biles  that's  in  the  Bible  that  they  call  Job  com- 
forts? {Louder.)  No,  Hiram,  it  didn't  say  that 
anybody's  visitin'  there — it's  only  a  bile  that  Henry's 
got.  He's  got  it  in  the  neck.  What?  A  dum  fool 
way  to  write  it  up?  Wal,  I  didn't  do  it,  an'  I 
s'pose  editors  has  to  have  some  fun  once  in  a  while. 
{Reads:) 

There  will  be  a  Necktie  Social  at  the  home  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs,  Will  Hopkins  on  Wednesday  evening 
of  next  week.  Each  lady  is  invited  to  bring  a 
gentleman's  necktie  to  be  sold,  and  lunch  for  two. 
Everybody  come. 

Oh,  now,  Hiram,  le's  go  to  that.  You  don't 
wanter?  All  dum  foolishniss?  Wal,  now,  you  kin 
stay  to  hum  if  you  wanter,  but  I'm  goin'.  What 
you  s'pose  I  got  that  new  green  dress  fer?  To 
hang  in  the  closit  an'  keep  nice?  Oh,  you  didn't 
want  me  to  git  it?  Wal,  I  got  it,  an'  now  I'm  goin' 
to  wear  it — what'd  you  s'pose  I  had  three  dollars' 
worth  a  white  trimmin'  spread  over  fer  if  I  wasn't 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


17 


fixin'  up  to  go  out  in  comp  ny  ?  La,  Hiram,  who'd 
you  s'pose'll  git  my  necktie  an'  eat  supper  with  me? 
What?  You  hope  it'll  be  that  Jim  Hawks,  that 
stutters  so  he  can't  say  nuthin'?  Wal,  I  don't.  I 
hope  it'll  be  the  new  clerk  in  Simpson's,  that  sings 
in  the  choir— my,  he's  got  the  most  languishin', 
meltin'  eyes  I  ever  did  see.  If  you  don't  go  the 
feller  that  gits  my  necktie'U  haf  to  see  me  hum. 
What?  You  intend  to  go?  Wal,  you  shall  see, 
Hiram,  that  they  won't  be  no  stylisher-lookin'  woman 
there  than  me,  what  with  my  new  dress  an'  the  big 
black  bow  in  my  hair.  What?  You  think  that  bow 
looks  like  a  cabbage  set  on  the  top  my  head?  Lan' 
sakes,  Hiram,  where'd  you  ever  see  a  black  cabbage? 
Jes'  cause  you're  gittin'  bald  you  needn't  be  mad 
cause  I  kin  do  my  hair  up  so  stylish.  Yes,  I'm  goin' 
to  read  on.  (Reads:) 

The  handsome  new  monument  of  Scotch  granite, 
ordered  by  j\Irs.  Leander  Pearson  to  grace  the  last 
resting  place  of  her  late  husband,  was  set  up  last 
week  and  is  one  of  the  finest  stones  in  the  county. 

Oh,  Susan  Tucker  was  tellin'  me  'bout  that  the 
other  day!  She  said  it's  a  dreadful  han'some  stone 
an'  cost  a  thousan'  dollars.  An'  what  you  s'pose? 
V/hen  ev'rybody  knows  how  glad  she  was  to  get 
rid  of  that  cross,  stingy  old  Pearson,  so's  she  could 
be  free  to  spend  his  money,  she  went  an'  had  'em 
say  on  the  m.onyment,  "The  light  of  my  life  has 
gone  out,"  an'  now  he's  only  bin  dead  three  months 
an'  she's  tryin'  to  strike  anuther  match.  It  does  jes' 
beat  all  how  some  widders  carry  on.  (Reads:) 

Thomas  Plenty  is  remodeling  his  house  and  will 
add  a  portico  to  the  front,  while  a  fine  cupola  will 
adorn  the  roof. 

Humph !  A  lot  of  style,  an'  them  no  better  off'n 
lots  of  other  folks!  What?  Yes,  a  portyco — sort 
of  a  piazzy  to  set  in  an'  watch  folks  go  by  while  you 
read  the  paper  er  do  the  mendin'.    I  s'pose  Betsy 


18 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


Plentyll  set  out  there  an'  show  off  'er  fine  clothes. 
What  was  the  other?  A  cupylo—kind  of  a  coop 
built  up  on  the  roof— tain't  good  fer  nuthin' — 
they're  jes'  puttin'  it  on  fer  style.  It  makes  me 
tired  how  some  folks  try  to  put  on.  I  think  you 
might  let  me  have  that  bay  winder  built  on,  Hiram, 
that  I've  teased  two  years  fer.  Can't  I  find  any 
more  to  read?  Course  I  kin.  Listen  to  this. 
(Reads:) 

A  marriage  license  has  been  granted  to  Jasper 
-sleadows  of  Podunk  and  Miss  Laura  Dusenberry  of 
this  village. 

Now,  ain't  that  the  beatinest  thing?  Why?  I 
should  think  you'd  ask  why.  You  know  that  Laura 
Dusenberry  can't  keep  house  no  more'n  a  kitten. 
They  say  she  can't  even  boil  water  without  a  burnin' 
it.  She's  awful  pretty?  Wal,  I  guess  he'll  find  that 
bein'  pretty  don't  cook  meals  an'  clean  up  a  house — 
but  that's  all  the  sense  men  has.  They  marry  a  girl 
'cause  she's  pretty  an'  kin  giggle,  without  stoppin'  to 
think  how  it'll  seem  to  live  on  soggy  bread  an'  w^ear 
clothes  that  never  gits  mended.  Many  a  man's  bin 
fooled  by  gittin'  a  pretty  girl.  What's  that?  You 
wish  you'd  a  married  a  purty  one?  Fer  shame  on 
you,  Hiram  Snodgrass — there  wasn't  a  better-look- 
in'  girl  in  these  parts  than  I  was  when  we  was  mar- 
ried. You  can't  remember  it?  W'y,  Hiram  Snod- 
grass, have  you  forgot  how  I  won  a  nice  photygraph 
album  fer  bein'  the  best-lookin'  girl  at  the  Squash- 
ville  fair?  An'  have  you  forgot  how  the  preacher 
said  we'd  a  bin  the  han'somest  couple  he  ever  mar- 
ried if  you'd  only  bin  good  lookin'?  Ain't  I  goin'  to 
read  any  more?    Course  I  be.  (Reads:) 

Mrs.  Jemima  Bigger  of  Nampa,  Idaho,  is  visiting 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Eli  Winters  of  this  city. 

W'y,  that  mus'  be  she  that  was  Jemima  Hooker, 
that  used  to  teach  school  round  here  an'  married 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


19 


Joseph  Bigger,  with  five  Httle  Biggers,  when  his 
wife  had  only  bin  dead  six  months.  I'll  have  to  go 
over  an'  call  on  'er.  What?  You're  goin',  too? 
You  used  to  be  sweet  on  'er?  Lan'  sakes,  I  do 
'•emember  now  how  you  went  with  'er  one  winter — 
awful  homely  girl  an'  dreadful  shif'less.  What? 
Best-natured  girl  you  ever  went  with?  How  kin 
you  say  such  a  thing  an'  me  a  settin'  right  here, 
alive  an'  well?  If  I  was  dead  an'  gone  it  v/ould  be 
diff'rent.  Nice  way  to  use  me — me,  the  lovin'ist  an' 
meekist  wife  you  ever  had.  W^hat?  You  never  had 
any  but  me?  Wal,  I  tell  you  right  now,  you'll 
never  git  to  have  anuther — me  havin'  sech  good 
health  an'  all  the  Snodgrasses  bein'  kinder  short- 
lifed.  Though  you  needn't  think  that  I'm  wantin' 
vou  to  die,  Hiram,  even  if  I  do  look  awful  becomin' 
in  black.  Go  on  readin'?  Mercy  sakes,  how  savage 
you  be !  I'm  sure  I'm  readin'  as  fast  as  I  kin. 
{Reads:) 

Rev.  John  Manning,  for  several  3'ears  the  popu- 
lar pastor  of  the  Methodist  Church,  has  resigned  his 
present  connections  and  will  accept  a  call  to  New- 
berry. 

Wal,  do  tell !  I  am  surprised !  I  s'posed  he'd  stay 
here  till  ev'rybody  died  off.  Popular  pastor! 
Humph!  Didn't  anybody  like  'im.  What?  You 
did?  Then  what  did  you  alius  go  to  sleep  in  church 
fer  an'  most  fall  off  en  the  seat  somiCtimes?  You 
did,  too!  Wal,  I'm  glad  he's  goin',  an  I'll  bet  all 
the  rest  the  church  is,  too.  Oh,  here's  somebody 
comin.'  \^^hy,  it's  INIr.  Manning.  Come  in,  Brother 
Manning.  Have  this  rocker.  We's  jes'  sayin'  how 
bad  folks'll  feel  to  have  you  leave,  an'  what  a  pity 
it  is  you're  goin'. 


20 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


MISS  DOROTHY  ENTERTAINS  THE 
MINISTER. 

Scene  :    The  parlor. 

Discovered,  Dorothy  receiving  the  minister. 

Miss  Dorothy.  Good  afternoon;  come  right  in 
and  have  a  chair — no,  not  that  one,  'cause  the 
spring's  broke  at  one  side  and  it  sags  so  it  most 
makes  you  seasick  to  rock  in  it.  Oh,  yes,  mamma 
is  home,  but  she  ain't  got  fixed  up  yet.  She  had  to 
make  so  much  good  stuff  to  eat  'cause  you  are  goin' 
to  be  here  to  supper  that  she  only  just  began  to  get 
dressed  up  a  few  minutes  ago. 

She  told  pa  she  jus'  didn't  know  what  to  have  for 
supper,  an'  pa  said  to  have  deviled  ham,  an'  deviled 
eggs,  an'  devil's  food,  'cause  they've  got  such  wicked 
names  that  m.ebbe  you  wouldn't  eat  'em,  an'  there'd 
be  more  left.  Oh,  yes,  we're  all  pretty  well,  thank 
you.  Mamma  had  a  real  bad  headache  yesterday 
afternoon,  but  that  was  because  she  didn't  want  to 
have  to  go  to  missionary  meeting. 

Um-hum,  of  course  I  read  the  Bible,  an'  I  know 
lots  of  Bible  verses,  an'  mamma  tells  us  things  an' 
then  asks  us  questions.  I  can  answer  lots  of  them, 
an'  oh,  pa  knows  some  the  funniest  answers  to  some 
of  them.  Mamma  asked  me  what  terruble  calam'ty 
happened  to  Adam  in  the  Garden  of  Eden  an'  pa  he 
said  it  was  that  the  Lord  made  'im  a  v/ife.  It  makes 
mamma  hoppin'  mad  when  he  says  things  like  that. 
Say,  I  know  a  Bible  conundrum,  ''Who  was  the 
first  man   in   the   meat   market   business  ?"  W'y, 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


21 


can't  you  answer  that?  It's  awful  easy.  Adam, 
\vhen  he  furnished  the  Lord  a  spare  rib.  An'  say, 
s'pose  you'd  wake  up  in  the  night  an'  find  a  great 
big  thief  steaHn'  your  silver,  what  book  of  the  Bible 
would  you  say  to  'im?  Hum,  can't  you  answer 
that?  AV'y,  you'd  sa_v,  "Lev-it-u-cus."  What?  You 
think  that's  wicked?  W'y,  how  can  anything  be 
wicked  when  it's  out  of  the  Bible? 

Oh,  my,  yes,  I  know  a  lot  of  the  Bible  stories — 
'bout  Joseph  in  the  pit,  an'  Jonah  in  the  whale,  an' 
Dan'el  in  the  lions'  den.  Oh,  say,  las'  summer  when 
I  went  to  Madison  to  the  circus  with  Uncle  Will 
Ave  saw^  a  man  in  the  parade  riding  in  a  cage  with 
some  lions,  an'  I  said,  "Oh,  Uncle  Will,  there's 
Dan'el  in  the  lions'  den,  ain't  it?''  An'  Uncle  Will 
said  yes,  an'  I  said,  ''*Is  the  Lord  keepin'  the  lions' 
mouths  shut  to-day,  too?"  an'  Uncle  Will  said  he 
didn't  have  to  keep  'em  shut  any  more,  'cause  Dan'el 
was  so  old  an'  tough  now  that  the  lions  couldn't  eat 
'im  if  they  vvanted  to. 

I  hope  you  aren't  gettin'  tired  of  waitin'.  I  guess 
mamma  will  be  down  pretty  soon.  Pa  says  she 
ought  to  live  over  in  Africa  where  they  don't  wear 
clothes,  'cause  it  takes  her  so  long  to  get  dressed  up. 
I  don't  think  she'll  dress  up  very  nice  to-day,  though, 
'cause  she  doesn't  want  you  to  think  we  can  give 
very  much  to  the  church.  She  said  she  was  goin' 
to  have  you  come  to  visit  this  week  before  we  get 
our  new  leather  couch  an'  Brussels  rug. 

"What?  W^'y,  yes,  of  course  I  say  my  prayers, 
only  I  don't  make  mine  up  in  my  head  the  way  you 
do  yours.  I  learn  mine.  I  know  two,  an'  one  of 
'em's  so  long  that  some  nights  mamma  has  to  shake 
me  to  keep  me  awake  till  I  get  to  the  end  of  it. 
Mary,  our  cook,  has  a  prayer  that's  awful  short. 
One  night  we  had  so  much  company  that  I  had  to 
sleep  with  'er,  an'  Vv'hen  she  got  'er  nightgown  on 
she  jus'  sat  down  on  the  edjSfe  of  the  bed  an'  said, 


22 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES, 


"Lord,  I'm  tired."  Wasn't  that  nice  an'  short?  But 
mamma  won't  let  me  do  that  way.  She  makes  me 
kneel  down  an'  say  a  great  long  one. 

What's  that?  Mebbe  I  better  tell  mamma  you're 
here?  Oh,  she  knows  it,  'cause  she  saw  you  comin' 
down  by  the  corner  jus'  when  she  was  goin'  to  get 
fixed  up.  She  said  it  was  jus'  like  you  to  come  so 
early.  Oh,  dear,  I  do  jus'-  wish  it  was  supper  time, 
'cause  we're  goin'  to  have  so  many  good  things  to 
eat.  We've  got  two  kinds  of  cake,  only  mamma  said 
she  hoped  you  wouldn't  take  any  of  the  white  kind, 
'cause  she  had  bad  luck  with  it.  Oh,  she's  comin' 
now.  {To  Mother.)  Here's  the  minister,  mamma, 
an'  he  hasn't  got  a  bit  tired  waitin'  for  you,  'cause  I 
talked  to  him  all  the  while,  jus'  as  nice  as  I  could. 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES,  23 


GRANDMx\'S    PHOTYGRAFT  ALBUM. 

Scene:    An  old-fashioned  parlor. 

Disco-vered,  Grandma  enterfairdng  a  caller. 

Grandma.  La,  yes,  Mis'  Sturgis,  I  mus'  show 
you  my  photygraft  album,  bein'  as  how  you're  new 
here  an'  ain't  never  saw  it.  (Brings  album.)  I  do 
set  a  awful  store  by  this  album.  It's  a  gettin'  along 
in  years,  same  as  myself,  but  it  looks  fair  to  middlin' 
yet,  though  it  oughter,  seein'  what  good  care  I've 
took  of  it.  Now  this  first  picter  is  Cousin  Lemuel 
Jenkins.  Ain't  he  sad-lookin',  though?  I've  often 
said  to  Hezekiah,  says  I,  ''A  graveyard's  a  real  cheer- 
ful compariion  to  what  Cousin  Lemuel  is."  An'  he's 
never  no  diff'rent — weddin's,  dances  er  fun'rals,  he 
is  alius  jes'  so  gloomy.  What  made  'im  that  way? 
Wal,  I  was  jes'  a  goin'  to  tell  you.  'Twas  'cause  he 
was  crosst  in  love.  My,  it's  queer  how  diff'rent  it 
affects  diff'rent  folks,  bein'  crosst  in  love.  Some  it 
affects  cross-wise  an'  some  it  affects  otherwise.  Now. 
there  was  Si  Harmon,  he  was  crosst  in  love  'bout 
the  same  time  Lemuel  was,  but  he  jes'  chirked  up 
an'  danced  harder 'n  ever  an'  got  anuther  girl  an' 
was  married  inside  a  three  months,  but  Lemuel  jes' 
sorter  give  up  an'  ain't  never  grinned  m.ore'n  two 
er  three  grins  sence  it  happened.  Yes,  it's  like  the 
poet  says  ; 

Of  all  sad  words  that  ever  was  sed, 
The  saddest  is  these,  he  couldn't  git  wed 
Unto  the  woman  that  he  wan-ted. 
Didn't  Lemuel  ever  git  married  to  nobody  else? 


24 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES, 


Massy  sakes,  wiiat  woman  do  you  s'pose  would  have 
sech  a  piece  a  melancholy  settin'  by  her  fireside? 
An'  this  is  Uncle  John  Benson,  on  my  mother's  side. 
Awful  good  man  he  was,  but  slow — Ian',  you  never 
knew  anybody  so  slow  as  Uncle  John  was.  His  wife 
uster  push  an'  pull  an'  try  to  hurry  'im,  but  didn't 
do  no  good.  He  was  a  awful  trial  to  'er,  she  bein' 
spry  as  a  cricket.  Once  they  was  to  be  a  fun'ral  an' 
she  says,  '*Now,  John,  I'm  goin'  to  do  up  my  work 
an'  git  ready  an'  go,  an'  you  can  come  when  you  git 
round  to  it."  So  she  does  up  the  dishes  an'  reds  up 
the  house  an'  puts  on  'er  fun'ral  clothes  an'  starts  on 
a  foot,  they  bein'  but  a  mile  from  the  church.  Wal, 
the  fun'i-al  v/as  had  an'  folks  got  their  rigs  an' 
started  fer  the  cemytery,  an'  still  no  Uncle  John. 
Aunt  Sabriny,  his  wife,  got  a  ride  in  with  somebody, 
an'  when  they  was  more'n  half  ways  to  the  grave- 
yard she  seed  Uncle  John  come  tearin'  along  the 
road  with  his  horse  on  a  gallop,  tryin'  to  ketch  up 
with  the  percession.  My,  she  was  dreatful  mortyfied, 
but  Uncle  John  sed  he  was  glad  of  a  chance  to  look 
at  the  coffin  'fore  it  was  laid  away. 

Now  this  next  is  Cousin  Emmeline  Bates,  on  my 
father's  side.  She's  alius  bin  awful  lucky.  Her 
father  said  she  shouldn't  never  git  married  till  she 
feathered  'er  nest  good,  so  she  married  a  merchant 
over  to  Taylerville,  an'  they're  dreatful  well  off. 
One  their  girls  is  a  opery  singer — she's  bin  to  Bos- 
ton an'  Germeny  an'  all  round  learnin'  to  sing,  an', 
my,  she  trills  an'  quivers  an'  goes  way  up,  an'  you 
can't  understand  a  word  she  says  she  sings  so  lovely. 

An'  this  next  one  is  my  sister  Mary.  You  think 
she's  nice  lookin'?  Yes,  she  was  the  pick  of  the 
family  fer  looks  all  right.  She  was  dreatful  high- 
strung,  too—things  alius  had  to  come  her  way.  She 
was  the  beatinest  girl  you  ever  seen  fer  wantin'  to 
be  at  the  head  of  things  and  sorter  take  the  lead. 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


25 


If  any  the  rest  the  folks  did  something  a  little  extry 
she  alius  wanted  to  try  an'  do  something  a  little 
smarter.  After  she  was  married  'twas  jes'  the  same, 
an'  finally  Cousin  Ellen  Dean  had  twins,  an'  she  says 
to  I\Iary,  says  she,  "AVal,  I've  got  you  beat,  ]\Iary. 
You  ain't  got  twins,  anyhow,"  ^^'al,  all  the  folks 
made  such  a  fuss  over  them  twins,  bein'  as  they  was 
the  first  ones  in  the  family  on  either  side,  an'  Mary 
she  felt  real  beat — both  her  children  bein'  only  single 
ones — an'  what  you  s'pose  she  done  ?  Had  triplets ! 
Yes,  sir,  an'  all  of  'em  lived.  I  never  see  anyone  so 
proud  in  my  life  as  she  Avas  to  beat  Ellen  that  way. 
Be  they  all  alive  yet?  Yes,  an'  ^lary  ain't  got  over 
bein'  proud  of  'em  to  this  day. 

This  here  one  is  my  mother's  youngest  sister, 
Sophrony.  Yes,  she's  cross-eyed.  \V'y,  she  was  the 
crostest-eyed  person  I  ever  seen  in  my  livm'  life. 
An'  she  was  jes'  as  brave  as  she  was  cross-eyed.  If 
you'll  believe  it,  once  she  heerd  somebody  down- 
stairs when  she  was  home  all  alone,  an'  she  got  the 
pistol — one  them  ol'  horse  pistols — an'  went  dowU; 
an'  there  was  two  tramps  a  huntin'  round  fer  val- 
u'bles.  What'd  she  do?*  AVall,  she  jes'  raised  the 
pistol  an'  told  'em  if  they  moved  she'd  kill  'em 
deader'n  they  had  ever  bin  before  in  their  lifes — an' 
s^he  was  so  cross-eyed  they  couldn't  possible  tell 
which  one  of  'em  she  was  lookin'  at,  an'  each  of  'em 
thought  she  was  lookin'  right  at  him,  so  they  dasen't 
neither  one  of  'em  move.  An'  if  she  didn't  make 
'em  walk  right  inter  a  closet  they  was  there  an'  shet 
the  door  an'  keep  'em  pris'ners  till  her  men  folks 
come  home.  Yes,  she  was  terrible  brave  an'  terrible 
cross-eyed. 

Now  this  is  a  likeness  of  Hezekiah's  second  cousin 
on  his  mother's  side.  Poor  man,  he  had  a  awful  sad 
lot.  He  went  to  heaven  by  fire,  as  it  were.  No,  he 
wasn't  exactly  burnt  to  death — he  was  a  missernery 


26 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


to  the  Canniber  Islands  an'  them  terrible  meat-eatin' 
savages  cooked  'im  an'  et  'im  up.  Wasn't  that  sad? 
I've  heerd  that  folks'll  git  to  be  like  the  stuff  they 
eat,  an'  I  should  think  that  some  them  cannibers 
would  git  to  be  niisserneries  'fore  long  if  that's  true. 

Now  this  one  is  my  brother  William.  He's  real 
well  off  an' — what  you  s'pose?  His  son  Henry  has 
got  one  them  automobeels.  When  I  was  there  vis- 
itin'  las'  summer  nuthin'  would  do  but  I  mus'  have 
a  ride  in  it,  an'  I  never  thought  I'd  git  out  alive. 
W'y,  my  bunnit  stood  straight  up  on  one  corner  an' 
Henry  says  to  me,  "Take  it  off,  Aunt  Jane,  an'  carry 
it  er  you  may  lose  it."  So  I  took  it  off,  but  I  says, 
* 'Nephew  Henry,  I  wouldn't  keer  much  if  I  was  to 
lose  this  bunnit,  'cause  it's  six  years  old  now,  but 
if  I  was  to  lose  off  my  four-dollar  hair  switch  I'd 
never  fergive  you."  My  suz,  I  don't  like  to  go 
scootin'  long  so  fast  you  can't  see  anything  by  the 
roadside.  Now  Hezekiah  an'  me,  when  we  go  'long, 
want  to  see  who's  got  washin's  out  an'  how  craps  are 
lookin'  an'  who's  keepin'  their  front  lav/ns  mowed 
down  nice  an'  how  the  flower  beds  look  an'  all  sech 
things,  but  in  one  of  them  automobeels,  what  with 
goin'  like  lightnin'  an'  hangin'  onter  your  belong- 
in's  an'  prayin'  that  you  won't  git  killed,  you  don't 
git  no  idee  of  the  scen'ry. 

Now  this  next  is — what?  You  got  to  go,  Mis' 
Sturgis?  Wal,  I'm  real  sorry  you  can't  stay  an'  see 
ail  my  likenesses,  but  you'll  be  in  agin  an'  we  can 
finish  lookin'  at  'em.  Yes.  I'm  dreatful  glad  you 
did.    Yes.  Good-by. 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


2? 


RESULTS    OF   CHRISTMAS  SHOPPING. 

Young  Mrs.  Newberry  enters  room  as  if  laden  with 
packages. 

Young  Mrs.  Newberry.  Oh,  dear  me,  I  do  hope 
I  am  home  at  last — loaded  down  like  a  Christmas 
tree.  I  must  look  like  a  walking  department  store 
with  all  these  packages.  Why,  I'm  just  tired  out. 
{Pretends  to  put  the  packages  on  table  and  sinks  into 
a  chair.)  Why  didn't  I  stay  all  day?  Shame  on 
you.  Jack,  to  say  mean  things !  I  hurried  just  as 
fast  as  I  could  and  I  have  only  been  gone  four  hours. 
What  do  I  intend  to  do  with  all  these  bundles? 
Why,  they're  Christmas  presents  for  my  relations  and 
friends.  You  must  know  that  it  is  nearly  Christmas 
— or  you  would  if  you  were  not  so  taken  up  with 
your  business  that  you  don't  think  of  anything  else. 
You  think  I  have  packages  enough  here  so  they  can 
all  have  two  or  three  a  piece?  Hum,  you  must  think, 
Jack,  that  I  am  dreadfully  destitute  of  relations  and 
friends.  Perhaps  you  take  me  to  be  ''Mary,  the 
Friendless  Orphan."  Have  I  got  one  for  you? 
Ye-es,  no-o — I  don't  know !  I'll  have  to  see  if  there 
is  anything  suitable  for  you  amiong  them  vvhen  I 
look  them  over.  Don't  I  buy  whatever  present  I 
want  to  give  to  each  person?  Why,  no — what  a 
stupid  way !  I  buy  things  that  look  pretty  in  the 
stores  and  then  decide  afterward  whom  I  shall  give 
them.  to.  You  bet  I've  got  a  lot  of  fool  things  that 
nobody  will  care  for?  My  dear  husband,  because 
you  were  a  poor  bargain  is  no  reason  why  I  should 


28 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


continue  to  get  foolish  things.  What?  You  want 
to  see  what  I  have  bought?  Well,  dear,  just  wait 
till  I  get  my  things  off  and  I  will  show  you  what  a 
splendid  hand  I  am  to  do  Christmas  shopping. 
{Action  as  if  taking  hatpins  out  of  hat,  removing  it 
and  putting  pins  hack  in,  lays  it  on  table,  takes  off 
coat  and  throws  it  over  a  chair.) 

Now  let  me  see,  what  is  this?  (Pretends  to  un- 
wrap package.)  Oh,  yes,  these  are  handkerchiefs. 
Aren't  they  lovely  ones?  I  got  them  at  a  bargain, 
too — only  paid  ninety-seven  cents  for  one-dollar 
handkerchiefs.  W^ho  are  the^^  for?  Oh,  I  don't 
know  yet,  but  they're  awfully  sensible  to  buy,  be- 
cause they  are  appropriate  for  everyone  and  no  one 
ever  has  too  many  of  them.  I'd  like  to  keep  them 
myself — they're  so  dainty.  And  now  this  (unwrap- 
ping package)  is  the  sweetest  thing.  (Holds  it  tip.) 
Isn't  it  a  jev/el?  You  don't  see  any  jewel — nothing 
but  a  spoon?  Of  course,  it  is  a  spoon — a  solid 
sterling  souvenir  spoon.  Who  is  it  for?  Oh, 
hum-m-m-m,  I  guess  for  Cousin  Jessica,  or  else  for 
Blanche,  or  Aunt  Althea.  I'd  just  like  to  keep  it 
myself,  it  is  such  a  sweet  pattern.  Now  this  is — 
oh,  yes,  this  is  a  collar — blue  silk,  white  chiffon  and 
real  lace — isn't  it  dear?  You  don't  know  the  price, 
but  you  suppose  it  w^as  dear?  Now  that  is  just  like 
you.  Jack,  to  think  I  always  pay  dear  for  things.  I 
suppose  you  never  do.  What?  You  paid  dear  foi 
me?  In  what  way,  I  should  like  to  ask,  sir?  Oh, 
when  3'ou  gave  the  preacher  twenty-five  dollars  to 
marry  us^  (Laughs.)  W^ell,  you  w^ere  silly  to  pay 
so  much,  I  am  sure.  I  think  I  shall  give  this  collar 
to  Cousin  Marie — no,  she  is  too  dark  for  this  shade 
of  blue.  I'll  give  it  to  (thinks) — -oh,  I'll  decide  on 
someone  when  I  make  out  my  list.  Here  is  (un- 
wraps and  holds  up) — now  isn't  this  a  sweet  silver 
bonbon  dish?     You  haven't  tasted  it?     Dear  me, 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


29 


Jack,  how  disagreeable  you  are  to-night.  Have  you 
been  losing  money  in  stocks  again  to-day  to  make 
you  so  cross?  I  think  I  shall  send  this  to  Aunt 
Sarah,  she  has  so  fcAv  real  pretty  things.  What? 
They  are  so  poor  they  never  can  afford  bonbons  for 
in  it?  Well,  she  can  put — ©h,  she  can  put  cheese  in 
it  then.  What?  You  think  she  will  use  it  to  keep 
her  thread  and  buttons  in?*  ^^lly,  that  is  quite  a 
good  suggestion !  You  do  have  bright  ideas  occa- 
sionallv,  don't  you,  dear?  Xovv  this  {unwrapping  it 
carefully)  is  something  awfully  cute.  A  smoker's 
set.  I  wanted  it  the  minute  my  eyes  rested  on  it. 
You  didn't  know  I  smoked?  Oh,  I  don't  mean  I 
wanted  it  for  myself — only  to  buy  it.  I  shall  give 
this  to  Uncle  Jerry.  He  doesn't  smoke  any  more? 
Oh,  bless  me,  I  had  forgotten  that  he  swore  off 
when  he  was  sick  two  years  ago.  Hiini-m-m-m-rn, 
I'll  give  it  to  Cousin  Ned.  He  doesn't  smoke,  either? 
That's  funny !  He  is  president  of  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  ? 
Vv'ell,  what  of  that?  I've  known  ministers  who 
smoked.  Anyway,  I  can  give  it  to  the  butler — of 
course,  I  must  give  him  a  present,  ^^'hat?  He 
smokes  enough  of  your  cigars  now  without  his  hav- 
ing this  for  a  further  excuse?  Well,  I  shall  give  it 
to  Albert  Alontague — he  gave  me  a  beautiful  book 
last  Christmas.  You  won't  have  me  giving  him  a 
present?  Why  not — just  because  he  was  in  love 
with  me  before  I  married  you?  You  think  it  would 
be  more  appropriate  if  I  gave  him  the  spoon  I 
bought?  Hum-m-m.-m,  he  isn't  a  spoon — at  least  he 
didn't  spoon  with  me — not  much,  anyway.  How 
would  I  like  it  if  you  gave  Carrie  ^leredith  a  pres- 
ent? Y^hat,  th-it  silly,  simpering,  designing  Carrie 
Meredith  ?  The  idea — you  better  give  her  one  !  You 
always  were  foolish  over  her — what?  You  Vs^ant  to 
see  what  else  I  bought"  I  don't  wonder  you  want 
to  change  the  subject.    Well  (unwraps),  here  is  a 


30 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


penknife.  Isn't  it  a  beauty?  You  think  it  isn't  nice 
to  give  a  knife  for  a  Christmas  present?  Why  not, 
pray?  Because  it  cuts  friendship  in  two?  Oh,  if 
that  is  so  I'll  let  you  have  this  to  send  to  Carrie 
Meredith,  seeing  you  are  so  determined  to  give  her 
a  present.  You  don't  waait  it?  Well,  that  is  kind, 
for  I  intend  to  send  it  to  Amy  Potter,  who  is  in 
high  school  and,  of  course,  needs  a  pretty  knife. 

You  think  I  might  have  bought  something  for 
you?  Oh,  I  did  come  near  getting  something — the 
loveliest  mink  collar  and  muff — only  seventy-five  dol- 
lars, too.  You  never  wear  them?  Of  course  not, 
but  I  thought  I  could  wear  them  for  you.  Oh,  Jack, 
here  is  something  beautiful.  A  piece  of  cut  glass. 
Why  didn't  I  get  the  whole  of  it  instead  of  just  a 
piece?  What  silly  things  you  do  say.  (Holds  it 
lip.)  Just  this  piece  cost  me  eighteen  dollars  and  a 
half — it  was  twenty  dollars,  but  the  salesman  let 
me  have  it  cheaper  after  I  had  jewed  him  for  quarter 
of  an  hour.  Now  I  suppose  you  would  have  paid 
the  twenty  dollars  and  said  nothing,  so  you  see  how 
much  better  shopper  I  am  than  you.  You  wouldn't 
have  bought  it  at  all?  That  is  very  true — you  don't 
care  a  bit  more  for  cut  glass  than  you  do  for  the 
pieces  they  sell  on  the  ten-cent  counter.  (Holds  dish 
up  on  her  hand.)  Isn't  it  a  beauty?  See  how  it 
flashes  and  shines  and  sparkles.  I  would  love  to  keep 
it  myself,  but  I'm  going  to  send  it  to  sister  Hattie. 
You  know  she  sent  me  that  elegant  silver  tea  set  last 
Christmas  and  I  only  sent  her  a — a — well,  I  can't 
think  now  what  it  was,  but  I  know  I've  been  ashamed 
all  the  year  because  it  was  so  insignificant  beside 
what  she  gave  me.  Now,  what  is  this?  Oh,  yes,  a 
pair  of  gentleman's  slippers.  Who  are  they  for? 
x9ear  me,  I  don't  know.  I  saw  them  in  a  window 
and  they  looked  so — so  sort  of  Christmasy  I  couldn't 
help  buying  them.    I  wonder  if  they  will  fit  papa? 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


31 


No,  I  gave  him  slippers  a  year  ago,  so  I  don't  want 
to  send  them  to  him.  Perhaps  they  will  fit  Unck 
Horace,  {Looks  at  them  meditatively.)  No,  I'm 
afraid  they  are  too  small,  he  has  such  large  feet. 
What?  Perhaps  you  can  wear  them  if  they're  real 
small?  Why,  of  course,  dearie— I  remember  now 
that  I  thought  when  I  was  buying  them  they  would 
just  about  fit  you.  Let  you  try  them  on?  No,  they 
won't  seem  like  a  Christmas  present  if  I  let  you 
have  them  now.  I  shall  put  them  away  and  keep 
them  until  Christmas  morning.  I'm  sure  they  will 
fit — you  have  such  dear  little  feet,  for  a  man,  you 
know,  and  yours  are  about  worn  out.  Your  feet 
most  w^orn  out?  No,  I  didn't  say  so — I  said  your 
old  slippers  that  you've  been  wearing  for  three  years. 
I  guess  this  is  all  I  bought  to-day.  My,  I'm  tired — 
the  stores  were  so  full  and  everybody  got  in  every-, 
body  else's  way  so.  All  my  Christmas  shopping- 
done?  Goodness,  no — I've  just  commenced.  You 
are  going  to  hide  your  pocketbook?  Come  on,  dear, 
let's  go  and  see  if  dinner  isn't  about  served.  You 
will  feel  more  generous  after  having  a  good  meal. 


32  HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


BEFORE  THE  MILLINER'S  MIRROR. 

Scene:    A  millinery  parlor.' 

Discovered,  a  stylish  Young  Lady  in  quest  of  hats. 

Young  Lady.  Yes,  I  wish  to  look  at  hats.  No, 
not  exactly  street  hats ;  something  a  little  more 
dressy,  though  I  wish  to  wear  it  quite  common,  as  I 
shall  have  an  elaborate  dress  hat  later  in  the  season. 
Yes,  I  think  I  want  something  ready  trimmed, 
though  I  may  decide  to  select  a  shape  and  have  it 
trimmed  if  I  see  just  what  suits  me.  (Action  of 
pulling  pins  out  of  hat,  taking  it  off  and  laying  it  aside, 
then  standing  before  the  mirror  and  fixing  hair.) 
Oh,  really,  I  scarcely  know  what  shape  I  do  want, 
I  prefer  to  try  on  a  number  and  see  what  I  like.  I 
am  so  particular  about  my  hats  that  I  can't  decide 
hastily. 

No — no,  don't  bring  me  that  straw-colored  one. 
I  never  v/ear  that  shade — somehow  it  doesn't  har- 
monize with  my  hair  and  complexion.  Yes,  that 
blue  turban,  let  me  try  that  on.  No,  let  me  put  it 
on  myself — no  one  else  ever  gets  a  hat  on  me  just 
to  suit  me,  {Takes  hat,  stands  in  front  of  mirror 
and  puts  it  on,  then  turns  to  one  side  and  the  other, 
uses  hand  glass  and  gets  a  hack  view,  etc.)  No, 
this  shape  isn't  becoming;  it  is  a  little  large  for  my 
face,  {Takes  it  off  and  tries  on  another.)  This  will  be 
better,  perhaps — yes,  it  is  quite  becoming  and  rather 
pretty,  but  it  has  too  common  a  look — too  much  as 
if  it  might  have  been  made  for  any  one  of  a  hundred 
different  women.    I  like  my  hats  to  have  a  decided 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


S3 


individuality,  as  if  thev  were  intended  for  no  one 
but  myself.  Oh,  yes,  I  think  so,  too.  A  hat  should 
have  a  certain  air  characteristic  of  the  one  who  wears 
it.  {Takes  off  hat  she  has  on.)  No,  this  is  scarcely 
what  I  want.  I  do  not  like  the  bow  in  the  back. 
(Takes  another  and  puts  it  on.)  I  am  sure  I 
shall  not  like  this  because  it  is  too— well,  a  little 
conspicuous,  don't  you  think?  I  want  my  hats  to 
have  a  certain  air  and  style,  swell  and  elegant,  you 
know,  without  being  noticeable.  Oh,  yes.  of  course 
I  want  people  to  notice  them,  but — -well,  I  want  them 
to  be  attractive  without  attracting  people — you  under- 
stand? (Takes  off  hat  sJie  has  on.)  Oh,  my,  no — don't 
give  me  that  one  with  a  bird  on — I  simply  can't  en- 
dure to  wear  birds.  Yes,  I  know  they  have  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  style,  but  my  little  brother  belongs  to 
the  Audubon  society  and  it  makes  him  furious  to 
have  us  wear  birds.  They're  only  made  ones  ?  Oh, 
my,  that's  worse  than  ever — I  can't  bear  imitations, 
I  want  the  real  thing  or  nothing  at  all.  (Tries  on 
anoth^er  hat.)  Xow,  I  like  this  quite  well.  The 
shape  is  very  near  what  I  had  in  mind  to  get,  but 
I  don't  like  this  color.  I  have  a  new  green  suit- 
not  really  a  green,  sort  of  a  brown,  too,  and  I  want 
something  that  will  go  nicely  with  it.  Have  one  like 
this  made  in  brown  and  trimmed  with  dark  green? 
No-o,  I  can't  do  that  because  I  have  a  blue  cravanette 
coat  I  shall  wear  quite  a  bit  this  season  and  I  Avant 
my  hat  to  match  that,  too.  Besides,  m.y  last  season's 
suit — a  sort  of  a  gray — something  between  a  steel 
and  a  pearl  gray,  bordering  a  little  on  the  silver 
gray,  too,  I  think — is  good  yet — quite  good,  in  fact, 
and  it  is  still  so  much  in  style  that  I  shall  wear  it 
considerable  and  m}-  hat  must  go  well  with  it,  you 
see.  Why  not  get  a  black  hat?  Oh.  my.  I  don't 
want  an  all  black  one — there  is  time  enough  for  me 
to  go  into  black  when  I  get  old,  don't  you  think? 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


(Takes  off  the  hat  she  has  on  and  puts  on  another.) 
This  has  some  good  points ;  the  back  is  quite  to  my 
liking,  but — it  hides  my  hair  a  Httle  too  much.  I 
want  a  hat  to  bring  out  the  attractiveness  of  my  hair 
— there  is  so  much  in  that,  don't  you  think?  The 
hair  and  hat  must  look  as  if  they  were  made  for 
each  other — oh,  I  don't  mean  just  that — I  object  to 
manufactured  hair,  but — you  know  what  I  do  mean. 
(Takes  off  the  hat  she  has-  on.)  Now,  let  me  see 
that  one  in  gray  and  white.  A  French  pattern? 
Twenty  dollars,  but  I  may  have  it  for  fifteen?  Oh, 
I  certainly  shouldn't  think  of  paying  more  than  ten 
for  such  a  hat.  Very  stylish?  Well,  I  am  wiUing 
to  pay  something  extra  for  style,  but  I  want  people 
to  be  able  to  notice  the  style  after  I  have  bought  it. 
(Takes  hat  off.) 

Now,  I  saw  a  hat  on  the  street  yesterday  that  I 
liked  so  much — it  was  very  nearly  what  I  should 
like.  I  wish  I  could  give  you  some  description  of  it, 
but — well,  you  know  that  is  the  way  with  very  stylish 
hats — they  impress  you,  but  you  can't  tell  what  they 
are  like  two  minutes  after  they  are  out  of  sight.  Oh, 
no,  it  wasn't  a  turban,  it  was  more  of  a — -well,  a 
little  on  the  order  of  the  newest  sailors  and  yet  a 
more  elaborate  shape  than  that,  too.  (Looks  at 
watch.)  Oh,  I  must  go — I'm  to  have  luncheon  with 
a  friend — no,  I  won't  decide  this  morning.  Besides, 
I  may  not  get  a  hat  just  now,  anyway.  Good  morn- 
ing. 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


35 


AN  ASPIRING  DISHWASHER. 
Scene:    A  kitchen. 

Discovered,  a  Young  ]\Iiss  standing  at  a  small  table 
'ojasliing  dishes. 

YouxG  AIiss.  Oh,  these  horrid  dishes — how  I  just 
hate  to  wash  them.  Life  would  be  real  pleasant  if  it 
wasn't  for  the  dish-washing  three  times  a  day.  Oh, 
how  this  egg  does  stick  on.  {Scratches  dish  zvith  her 
finger. )  There,  I  guess  it's  all  off !  I  rather  speak 
pieces  than  wash  dishes — oh,  I  just  love  to  do  elocu- 
tion.   I  like  this  one.  (Speaks  as  she  zi'asJies  dishes:) 

''Woodman,  spare  that  tree ; 
Touch  not  a  single  bough. 
In  youth  it  sheltered  me, 
And  I'll  protect  it  now. 
'Twas  my  forefather's  hand — '* 

Oh,  my  goodness,  I've  washed  the  handle  right  off  of 
this  cup !  Dear  me,  I  wish  it  had  been  my  fore- 
father's hand  that  broke  it  so  he  would  have  to  get 
the  scolding  instead  of  me.  That's  an  awful  nice 
piece,  too,  about  Bingen.  (Stands  out  from  table  and 
recites,  putting  in  exaggerated  gestures:) 
"A  soldier  of  the  Legion  lay  dying  in  Algiers, 

(Right  hand  aut  at  side,  arm's  length.) 
There  was  lack  of  woman's  nursing,  there  was  dearth 

of  woman's  tears ; 
But  a  comrade  stood  beside  him  while  his  Hfe-blood 

ebbed  away, 

(Points  ■v.'ith  the  left  hand.) 


36  HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


And  bent,  with  pitying  glances,  to  hear  what  he 
might  say. 

{Hands  clasped  and  head  bent  low,  listening.) 
The  dying  soldier  faltered  as  he  took  that  comrade's 
hand, 

And  he  said" — oh,  my  gracious,  I  believe  mamma's 
coming.  I'll  have  to  get  at  these  dishes.  (Starts  tc 
zmsh  them.)  No,  she  isn't  coming.  How  I  hate 
this  horrid  work.  (Recites  'tragically  and  ivith  a 
great  deal  of  emphasis:) 

"Forward  the  Light  Brigade, 
Charge  for  the  dishes,  he  said. 
And  into  the  dish-water 
Put  your  fair,  young  hands. 
Dishes  to  right  of  me, 
Dishes  to  left  of  me, 
Dishes  in  front  of  me 
Have  to  be  washed." 

Fits  pretty  well,  doesn't  it?  Dear  me,  I  wonder  if 
this  cream  pitcher  is  clean — it's  so  little  I  can't  half 
get  at  it.  Yes,  when  Fm  a  young  lady  I  shall  be  an 
elocutionist  and  give  recitals.  I  know  an  awful  nice 
piece.  (Walks  hack  and  forth  across  floor,  bent  over, 
as  she  speaks:) 

"Over  the  hill  to  the  poorhouse  I'm  trudgin'  my 

weary  way — 
I,  a  woman  of  seventy,  and  only  a  trifle  gray — " 

Oh,  I  must  tend  to  my  work!  I'll  be  seventy  time 
I  get  these  dishes  done  if  I  don't  look  out.  (Washes 
vigorously.)  And  when  I  get  to  be  a  great  elocu- 
tionist I  shall  have  a  pale  blue  silk  dress  with  low 
neck  and  short  sleeves,  like  the  lovely  lady  who  gave 
the  entertainment  here  last  winter.  Bless  me,  how 
greasy  this  platter  is — I  do  hate  greasy  dishes.  I 
think  funny  pieces  are  awful  cute.    I  like  this  one. 


HUMOROUS  MOXOLOGUES. 


37 


(Speaks:) 

"Hans  Breitmann  giie  a  barty ; 

Dey  had  biano-blay'n ; 
I  felled  in  lofe  mit  a  ^Merican  Frau, 

Her  name  was  ^ladilda  Yane. 
She  hat  haar  as  provrn  ash  a  pretzel, 

Her  eyes  vas  himmel-plue, 
Und  ven  dey  looket  indo  mine, 

Dey  shplit  mine  heart  in  two." 

(Clasps  both  hands  over  Jier  heart.) 

Oh.  my  land,   now   I've   got   dish-water  on  my 
waist — I  guess  it  won't  hurt  it  any  though.    I  get 
awfully  excited  when  I  speak.    I'm  going  to  begin 
to  learn  Shakespeare  soon — my.  he's  lovely.  (JV ashes 
dishes  slozi'Iy.)    Love  is  awfully  nice  to  speak  about. 
I  know  some  splendid  pieces  with  it  in.  (Speaks:) 
"Tying  her  bonnet  under  her  chin. 
She  tied  her  raven  ringlets  in. 
But  not  alone  in  the  silken  snare 
Did  she  catch  her  lovely,  floating  hair, 
For.  tying  her  bonnet  under  her  chin, 
She  tied  a  young  man's  heart  within.''' 

Now,  isn't  that  sweet — only  I  hope  it  wasn't  sun- 
bonnet  strings — that  vrould  spoil  the — the  style. 
They  were  probably  lovely  blue  chiffon  ties  like 
Edith  Ashton's  cousin  had. 

There,  I  guess  TVe  got  all  the  china  washed  at 
last.  I  wonder  why  people  use  so  many  dishes. 
Yes,  I  shall  certainly  be  a  reciter  and  go  on  the 
platform.  Um-m-m-m.  won't  it  be  beautiful  to  be 
encored  and  get  flowers?  Isly,  this  silver  needs  rub- 
bing— this  is  lovely,  too. '  (Stands  out  and  speaks 
with  elaborate  gestures:) 

"She  has  reached  the  topmost  ladder:  o'er  her  hangs 
the  great,  dark  bell. 

(Both  hands  extended  above  head.) 


38  HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


And  the  awful  gloom  beneath  her  like  the  pathway 

down  to  hell. 

{Hands  extended  downward.) 
See,  the  ponderous  tongue  is  swinging!     'Tis  the 

hour  of  curfew  now! 
{Right  hand  moved  hack  and  forth  above  head.) 
And  the  sight  has  chilled  her  bosom,  stopped  her 

breath  and  paled  her  brow. 
Shall  she  let  it  ring?    No,  never!    Her  eyes  flash 

with  sudden  light. 
As  she  springs  and  grasps  it  firmly — {steps  forward 

and  pretends  to  grasp  tongue  of  hell  with 

hoth  hands).    Curfew  shall  not  ring  to-night!" 

Oh,  I  think  that's  lovely — and  so  thrilling.  Mercy, 
I  must  keep  at  these  dishes.  {Washes  very  fast.) 
One  thing  is  sure — I  never  shall  wash  a  dish  after 
I  get  to  be  a  noted  elocutionist,  no,  indeed.  I  like 
the  pieces  best  where  you  dress  up  and  act  them 
out — oh,  they're  lovely!  I  know  one  where  a  beau- 
tiful young  lady  is  all  dressed  in  white  satin  and 
sits  at  a  table  writing  a  letter — like  this.  {Pulls  chair 
up  and  sits  hy  table,  pretending  to  write  as  she 
speaks:) 

"I'm  sitting  alone  by  the  fire, 

Dressed  just  as  I  came  from  the  dance 

In  a  robe  even  you  would  admire — 
It  cost  a  cool  thousand  in  France ; 

I'm  bediamonded  out  of  all  reason. 

My  hair  is  done  up  in — " — heavens,  mamma  is 
calling  me.  {Runs  to  side  of  stage  and  calls:)  What 
is  it,  mamma?  No-o,  I  haven't  got  the  dishes  quite 
finished,  but  I'll  be  through  in  a  minute.  What? 
Yes,  ma'am,  all  right.  {Hurries  to  table  and  begins 
to  work  very  fast.) 

Note.— ^  good  effect  may  he  obtained  hy  having 
a  large  dish  pan  and  dish  cloth  on  the  table,  with 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES.  39 


a  smaller  pan  in  which  dishes  are  turned.  The 
speaker  goes  through  the  motions  of  zvashing  the 
dishes  and  placing  them  in  the  smaller  pan.  With 
practice  this  dish  washing  can  he  made  quite  a  ''hit." 


IN  GRANDMA'S  DAY. 

Scene:    A  home,  in  zvhich  Miss  Lucile  discusses 
the  customs  of  Grandma's  day. 

Miss  Lucile.  Oh,  Grandma,  are  you  still  knitting 
on  that  dreadful  sock?  ^ly,  I  should  think  you 
would  get  tired  of  it — mercy,  how  I  hate  to  knit ! 
What?  In  your  day  it  was  considered  a  very  lady- 
like accomplishment  to  knit?  Hum,  I'm  glad  I  didn't 
live  in  those  days,  Grandma.  Why,  I  can't  even  bear 
to  wear  home-made  stockings — to  say  nothing  of 
knitting  them.  Great,  coarse,  scratching  things,  they 
fairly  make  my  feet  sore.  You  think  the  feet  of 
this  generation  must  be  very  tender?  Yes,  I  suppose 
so.  Maybe  it  is  because  we  wash  ours  oftener  than 
you  folks  used  to.  Oh,  no,  I  don't  mean  to  say  the 
people  of  your  day  weren't  clean,  Grandma,  but  you 
know  bath  tubs  are  so  much  more  common  now. 

And  v/ho  are  you  knitting  these  socks  for, 
Grandma?  A  Christmas  present  for  Grandpa? 
Goodness,  you  must  think  a  lot  of  him  to  put  in  so 
much  time  on  him,  and  he  must  think  a  lot  of  you 
to  be  w^illing  to  wear  them  after  he  gets  them.  What? 
Folks  who  got  married  in  your  day  had  a  more  en- 
during affection  for  each  other  than  they  do  now 
days?   Yes.  I  think  so,  Grandma,  because  I  am  sure 


4Q  HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


I  never  shall  fall  very  hard  in  love  with  any  man, 
but,  of  course,  I  am  going  to  get  married  so  as  to 
have  someone  to  pay  my  bills.  Oh,  you  think  it  is 
wicked  to  talk  so?  I'm  too  young  to  think  anything 
about  fellows?  Why,  bless  you.  Grandma,  dear,  I've 
had  {counts  on  her  lingers)  six  different  beaus  al- 
ready. What?  You  think  that  Fred  Jackson  isn't 
a  proper  young  man  for  me  to'  go  with  ?  Oh,  I  don't 
go  with  him  now,  Grandma — I've  got  a  new  one. 
Why,  Fred  and  I  had  a  dreadful  falling  out  and 
haven't  spoken  for  two  months.  I  can't  bear  him 
any  more. 

What?  The  young  people  didn't  quarrel  that  way 
in  your  day?  Oh,  fudge,  what  a  poky  time  3^ou 
must  have  had  of  it,  Grandma.  Your  feet  may  have 
been  hard,  but  your  consciences  were  soft,  weren't 
they?  Girls  had  something  better  to  think  of  in 
your  day  than  going  with  boys?  Oh,  pshaw, 
Grandma,  you  got  married  when  you  weren't  much 
older  than  I  am  now.  Don't  try  to  make  out  that 
you  were  the  whole  cheese  of  propriety.  What? 
You  think  my  slang  is  dreadful?  The  young  people 
of  your  day  didn't  talk  so?  Well,  that  was  because 
you  boys  and  girls  were  so  bashful  3^ou  didn't  say 
anything.  I  have  heard  you  say  that  when  Grandpa 
first  began  to  go  with  you  you  were  both  so  bashful 
that  you'd  walk  clear  home  from  singing  school 
without  saying  a  word.  I  am  glad  that  Will  Harris 
and  I  are  not  such  dunces  as — what?  You  think  I 
am  terrible  to  call  you  and  Grandpa  dunces?  Why, 
I  didn't  say  so.  Grandma,  dear.  I  only  said  we 
would  be  dunces  if  we  did  so  now  days.  Oh,  I  think 
you  and  Grandpa  v/ere  awfully  nice  and  good — 
though  I  think  it  must  have  been  stupid  to  be  so 
proper — but  I'm  sure  you  must  have  looked  funny 
walking  home  together  without  speaking.  Did  one 
of  you  walk  on  each  side  of  the  road,  Grandma,  or 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


41 


did  you  take  hold  of  hands  and  then  look  in  opposite 
directions  and  grin? 

And  didn't  you  ever  flirt  with  any  other  fellow — 
just  to  make  Grandpa  jealous,  you  know?  What? 
The  young  people  of  your  day  didn't  know  the 
meaning  of  the  word  flirt?  Why,  weren't  there  an^ 
dictionaries  in  those  days,  Grandma?  You  think  I 
ought  to  be  ashamed?  Ashamed  of  what?  You  and 
Grandpa,  because  you  didn't  know  the  meaning  of 
the  word  flirt?  Well,  I  am — -but  tell  m.e.  Grandma, 
didn't  you  e^-er  have  any  other  beaus  but  Grandpa 
What  was  the  matter  that  the  boys  didn't  fancy  you? 
Oh,  they  did?  John  Barlow,  the  schoolmaster,  tried 
to  go  with  you?  And  Lam  Haskins  didn't  get 
over  it  for  a  year  because  you  gave  him  the  mitten? 
And  Toe  Beverly  declared  he  should  kill  himself 
if  you  wouldn't  keep  company  with  him?  Oh.  my — 
and  did  he?  Oh,  he  changed  his  mind?  Well,  I 
am  glad  of  it,  because  I  should  hate  to  be  the  grand- 
daughter of  a  murderess — that  would  be  worse  than 
being  frivolous  and  using  slang  and  hating  to  knit. 

Well,  from  what  you  have  confessed,  Grandma, 
I  think  the  young  ladies  of  your  day  flirted  just  as 
bad  as  we  girls  do  now,  because  all  those  fellows 
wouldn't  have  been  after  you  if  you  hadn't  given 
them  some  encouragement — at  least,  a  glance  out 
of  the  corner  of  your  eye.  And  tell  me.  Grandma, 
didn't  you  ever  have  any  good  times  going  places 
when  you  were  a  girl  like  me?  What?  I  stay  up 
too  late  and  go  more  than  is  good  for  m.e?  Girls  in 
3^our  day  weren't  so  giddy?  But  just  think  of  the 
lovely  times  I  have  at  receptions  and  lectures  and 
theaters  and  parties  and  things  I  go  to.  What  a  pity 
you  had  to  miss  everything  like  that.  What?  You 
had  just  as  much  fun  at  the  quiltings  and  apple- 
parings  and  husking-bees  and  house-warmings  and 
barn  dances  as  we  have  now?    Why,  Grandma,  the 


42 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


idea  of  your  trying  to  preach  to  me — you  went  to 
more  things  and  stayed  out  later  than  I  do,  I'm  sure. 
The  truth  is,  my  dear  Grandma,  that  the  girls  of 
your  days  were  just  as  giddy  and  frivolous  as  I  am, 
and  you  were  not  a  bit  better  than  your  dear  grand- 
daughter, if  I  do  have  tender  feet  and  use  slang  and 
hate  to  knit — so  there! 


BACK  IN  SQUASHVILLE. 
Marguerite  gives  her  viezv^s  on  life  in  high  society. 

Marguerite.  My,  we're  living  dreadful  swell 
now  an'  I  can  have  all  the  money  I  want  to  spend  an' 
I  wear  awful  costly  clothes  an'  am  gettin'  made  into  a 
lady,  but  I  don't  have  half  the  fun  I  did  when  we 
lived  back  in  Squashville.  Why,  back  in  Squash- 
ville,  when  we  was  poor  'fore  pa  found  oil  in  our 
ground  an'  got  us  rich,  I  used  to  have  lots  of  fun. 
I  w^ore  a  cal'co  dress  to  school  an'  didn't  have  to  be 
ladylike,  an'  went  barefoot  in  summer  time  an'  run 
'round  the  streets  without  nothing  on  my  head  an' 
did  just  lots  of  nice  things.  Oh,  an'  there  was  the 
nicest  little  crick  back  in  Squashville  an'  I  used  to 
hold  up  my  dress  an'  roll  up — my — my  other  things, 
you  know,  an'  go  in  wading  with  the  boys. 

But  now  we  have  to  be  awful  stylish,  since  pa 
struck  it  rich,  an'  ma's  taking  phys'cal  cultured  les- 
sons so's  she  won't  be  round  shouldered  like  as  if 
she  used  to  do  her  owm  washing  an'  things  an'  learn- 
ing to  talk  like  as  if  she'd  alius  gone  to  school  an' 
lived  on  grammars  an'  dictioneries  an'  such  things. 


HUMOROUS  MOXOLOGUES. 


43 


An'  she  reads  in  a  book  'bout  a  lady  called  Etty 
Kette  an'  won't  let  us  eat  pie  with  our  knife  or 
drink  tea  out  of  our  sassers  like  we  did  back  in 
Squashville,  an'  we  can't  stretch  for  ourselves  at  the 
table,  but  has  to  get  ev'ry  thing  passed  to  us  by  a 
Vv-aiting  girl.  An"  lots  a  times  we  didn't  have  no 
tablecloth  on  back  in  Squashville  an'  pa  et  in  his 
shirt  sleeves,  but  now  he  has  to  put  on  a  coat  an' 
wear  a  little  sheet  that  ma  calls  a  napkun  an'  pa 
sighs  and  says,  ''Gosh.  I  wish  I  was  back  in  Squash- 
ville, poor  as  Job's  turkey  again." 

An'  now  we  have  splendid  dam-ask  linen,  an'  cut- 
up  glass  an'  chiny  that  3'ou  can  most  see  through, 
it's  so  thin,  and  pa's  alius  skeered  for  fear  hell  bite 
a  piece  out  of  his  cup  when  he  drinks,  an'  says  all 
they  is  to  such  stuff  is  the  price.  An'  Ave  have  thing-s 
to  eat  that  has  the  funniest  names  that  vou  don't 
know  what  they  mean,  an'  one  day  pa  got  mad  and 
said  to  ma,  ''Tm  dam  tired  and  sick  of  eatin'  all 
these  French  jimmy-cracks — I  want  some  good  old 
pork  an'  beans  an'  biled  cabbage  an'  thin,8:s  like  we 
used  to  have  back  in  Squashville."  ^ly,  it  makes 
ma  m.ad  when  pa  talks  like  that,  'cause  ma  just  loves 
high  life  an'  being  rich. 

An',  oh  my,  you  ought  to  see  ma's  partv  dress. 
It  come  from  Paris  an'  cost  a  dreadful  lot  of  money 
an'  they  ain't  hardly  any  top  to  it  an'  it  hangs  down 
on  the  floor  'bout  a  yard  behind,  an'  pa  said  he 
wasn't  going  out  in  comp'ny  with  no  such  piece  of 
staterar3%  an'  he  said.  ''Alaria.  you  go  an'  get  a 
dressmaker  to  cut  the  tail  often  that  an'  sew  it  on 
ter  the  waist."  An'  ma  she  laughed  an'  said,  ''Why, 
this  is  the  way  to  dress  when  you  get  up  in  soci'ty." 
an'  pa  said  'cause  she  was  goin'  up  wasn't  no  reason 
why  her  dress  should  go  down,  an'  he  says,  "I'd 
rather  see  you  in  that  red  cashymere  that  you  used 
to  wear  back  in  Squashville." 


45- 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


An',  oh,  pa  he  has  got  a  dress  suit  that  has  funny 
little  tails  behind  an'  stiff  white  shirt  buzzim  that 
comes  way  down  on  his  stummick  where  his  vest 
ought  to  be. 

Back  in  Squashville  I  used  to  know  ev'rybody  an' 
have  lots  of  fun  sliding  down  hill  with  Billy  Flynn 
an'  playing  squat-tag  with  the  Stebbins  children  who 
had  a  pa  stayin'  in  jail,  but, here  ma  won't  let  me 
speak  to  any  children  less  they're  in  our  set — though 
I  can't  see  what  diff'rence  it  makes  whether  they 
set  the  same  way  I  do  or  not.  Sometimes  I  cry  and 
tease  ma  to  let's  go  back  to  Squashville  to  live  where 
I  can  have  some  fun,  but  she  says  I'm  a  silly  little 
girl  an'  that  I've  got  to  be  edgercated  an'  learn  to 
sing  on  the  harp  an'  travel  an'  go  in  soci'ty  an'  get 
a  rich  husban',  an'  I  say,  "I  don't  want  to  be  edger- 
cated an'  traveled  an'  soci'tyed  an'  get  a  rich  hus- 
ban'—I  want  to  be  a  school  teacher  like  Sallie  Jones 
I  used  to  go  to  school  to  'fore  we  got  rich,  an'  then 
marry  Billy  Flynn  an'  live  back  in  Squashville." 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


45 


UNFORTUNATE  BESSIE. 

Bessie.  Oh,  kitty,  do  you  love  your  poor,  naughty 
mistress?  I'm  awful  bad,  sister  says,  Kittykins,  bad 
enough  to  send  to  jail,  an'  mamma  sent  me  up  here 
to  stay  all  alone  till  bed  time  an'  not  have  a  bit  of 
supper.  I'm  hungry,  too,  though  not  so  very,  'cause 
while  I\Iegs  was  here  to  play  we  went  in  the  pantry 
an'  swiped  peanut  sandwiches  an'  cream  puffs  an' 
v/afers  with  cocoanut  all  sprinkled  on  'em  that  Sis- 
ter Josephine  had  fixed  for  her  company  to-night. 
l\ly,  they  was  awful  good  an'  we  didn't  know  there 
was  only  enough  to  go  'round  for  the  company  an' 
so  we  ate,  oh,  a  whole  lot — though  we  didn't  mean 
to  eat  hardly  any — jus'  a  little  teeny  bit,  Kitt3'kins. 

Don't  you  think  this  is  a  hard  world  to  live  in, 
kitty  dear,  for  children,  I  mean?  I'm  the  most  un- 
fortunatest  girl — alius  getting  caught  in  some  trouble 
when  I  don't  mean  anything  bad.  Sister  says  Em 
a  holy  terror,  an'  Uncle  Jack  says  I'm  an  imp,  an' 
Aunt  Mehitable  says  I'm  on  the  broad  road  that 
leads  to  Perdition.  I  looked  in  my  geogerphy  to  see 
if  Perdition  is  a  nice  city,  but  I  couldn't  find  it  an' 
I  don't  believe  Aunt  Mehitable  knew  what  she  was 
talking  about.  I  can't  bear  her- — I  make  faces  behind 
her  back  every  time  I  get .  a  chance. 

I  wouldn't  be  bad,  kitty,  if  folks  w^asn't  alius  find- 
ing me  in  mischief  when  they  shouldn't'  ought  to 
know  'bout  it.  I'm  jus'  as  unfortunate  as  I  can  be. 
Now,  that  time  I  put  the  wash  dish  of  dirty  water 
on  the  back  stairs  so  Jane,  the  maid,  would  step  in 


46 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


it  when  she  came  down  to  go  to  the  party,  an*  spoil 
her  lovely  blue  dress — I  didn't  do  it  because  I  was 
bad.  I  did  it  'cause  I  was  mad  at  Jane  for  telling 
mamma  that  I  let  Harry  Williams  kiss  me.  Mean 
thing!  I  didn't  let  him  kiss  me  'cause  I  like  to  taste 
kisses — it  was  'cause  he  said  he  bet  five  dollars  I 
was  'fraid  to  let  a  boy  kiss  me  an'  I  guess  I  wasn't 
going  to  let  him  think  I  was  such  a  'fraid  cat,  would 
you,  Kittykins? 

An'  that  time  I  poured  kerosene  on  the  minister's 
ice  cream  I  didn't  do  it  to  be  wicked  'cause  I  didn't 
know  the  minister  was  goin'  to  get  that  dish — I 
thought  it  was  Uncle  Jack's.  I  wanted  to  put  it  on 
his  ice  cream  to  pay  him  for  slapping  me  'cause  I 
cut  the  hand  ofif  my  soldier-boy  doll  with  his  razor. 
I  didn't  want  a  soldier  doll  less  he  looked  like  he'd 
been  in  the  war  an'  got  to  be  a  battle-scared  hero, 
so  I  cut  one  hand  off  and  told  folks  it  was  shot  off 
in  the  battle  of  Look-up  Mountain.  An'  Uncle  Jack 
was  mad  jus'  'cause  I  used  his  razor,  so  I  put  kero- 
sene on  the  dish  of  cream  I  thought  was  for  him, 
an'  I  wasn't  to  blame  'cause  the  girl  made  a  mistake 
an'  gave  it  to  the  minister.  My,  it  was  awful  funny 
to  see  the  minister  when  he  tried  to  eat  it.  An'  when 
I  laid  Sister  Josephine's  beau's  coat  on  the  sticky 
flypaper  an'  they  started  off  to  the  opery  with  it 
stuck  onto  his  back,  how  did  I  know  they  would  find 
out  I  did  it,  Kittykins?  I  thought  he  would  think 
he  kid  it  there  hisself.  This  is  a  mean  old  world  an' 
I  wish  I'd  die  so  they  could  put  on  my  tombstone, 
"Here  Lies  Darling  Bessie  Who  Always  Was  Good." 


HUMORO IS  MONOLOGUES. 


4' 


ALGEBRA  AND  CLASS  PARTIES. 

Miss  Coxstaxce  sits  at  a  table  zinth  book,  paper  and 
pencil,  z^'orkiug  problems  in  algebra. 

Miss  Constance:  Oh,  dear,  I  must  get  these 
algebra  problems  for  to-morrow  or  I  can't  go  to  the 
class  party  vrith  an  easy  conscience.  Bother  the 
algebra,  anyway.  I  think  arithmetic  and  algebra  and 
such  studies  ought  to  be  simply  for  boys — what  good 
do  they  do  girls?  I  enjo}^  studies  like  grammar  and 
literature  and  history — they  seem  so  much  more — 
more  ladylike,  somxchow.  Oh,  I  -wish  it  was  time  for 
the  party  this  minute — parties  are  so  much  more  fun 
than  algebra.  Dear-r-r,  I  suppose  I  must  get  this 
lesson.  Let's  see — where  is  it?  Oh,  yes,  this  is 
where  to  begin.  {Reads  from  book.)  ''A  farmer 
who  has  two  droves  of  hogs" — oh,  I  hate  problems 
about  hogs — they're  so  dirty  and — and  pigg}',  some 
way.  Xow,  if  it  was  about  sheep  I  wouldn't  mind  it 
so  much.  Sheep  are  sort  of  nice  and  interesting — es- 
pecially when  they're  lambs.  Now,  vvdiere  was  I? 
(Reads.)  "A  farmer  who  has  two  droves  of  hogs 
finds  that  one-half  the  number  in  the  first  drove  less 
four" — I  suppose  I  may  as  well  write  this  down  as 
I  go  along  and  save  time.  Let's  see — let  X  equal 
the  number  in  the  first  drove  and — I  suppose  that 
Marie  Evans  will  Vv-ear  her  blue  silk  dress  to-night. 
She  does  think  she  is  the  whole  beach  when  she  has 
it  on.  I'd  just  like  to  tell  her  how  the  skirt  sags  in 
the  back.  The  waist  makes  her  look  round  shoul- 
dered, too.    Tom  Williams  says  she  doesn't  look  half 


48  HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


as  swell  in  it  as  I  do  in  my  red  voile.  I  don^t  see 
what  folks  make  such  a  fuss  over  her  for  anyway. 

Dear,  this  example — and  let  Y  equal  the  number 
in  the  second  drove.  Then — now  let's  see — {reads) 
"One-half  the  number  in  the  first  drove  less  four 
equals  one-fourth  the  number  in  the  second  drove 
plus  five."  I  just  hate  these  problems  about  farmers 
and  cattle,  and  horses  and  ho^s,  and  such  things.  If 
we've  got  to  do  algebra  at  all 'why  can't  it  be  prob- 
lems like,  ''One-fourth  the  money  a  young  lady  spent 
for  a  hat  equals  one-fifth  of  what  she  paid  for  a 
tailor  suit,  and  one-eighth  of  what  she  paid  for  a  suit 
equals  what  she  paid  for  a  fancy  parasol,  and  so 
forth." 

Oh,  fidgets,  where  was  I?  Y  over  4  less  4 — no, 
that's  not  right.  Y  over  2  less  4  equals — I  hope 
they  will  serve  the  supper  in  courses  to-night.  Of 
course,  you  don't  get  any  more  to  eat  that  way,  but 
it's  so  sort  of  stylish  that  it  tastes  better.  I  just  do 
love  to  have  things  swell.  And  then  it  gives  one 
such  a  nice  chance  to  talk  with  her  partner  while 
they  are  clearing  off  things  and  washing  dirty  dishes 
for  the  next  course,  and  so  forth.  Now,  I  wonder 
if  I  have  this  down  right?  (Reads.)  One-half  the 
number  in  the  first  drove  less  four  equals  one-fourth 
the  number  in  the  second  drove  plus  five.  (Looks 
at  her  paper.)  Oh,  I've  got  it  down  wrong — it 
should  be  X  over  2  less  4  equals — now  what  is  the 
rest?  (Looks  at  book.)  Um-m-m-m-m,  oh,  3^es, 
equals  one-fourth  of  Y  plus — Tom  Williams  said  he 
was  never  going  to  speak  to  me  again  if  I  didn't  eat 
supper  with  him  to-night.  At  the  last  party  I  had  to 
go  to  supper  with  Roy  Harrison  and  I  was  awfully 
mad.  Oh,  of  course,  he's  smart  and  nice,  but  he 
isn't  very  swell.  Why,  he  has  worn  the  same  necktie 
to  at  least  four  parties  right  along.  Oh,  crickets, 
what  is  the  rest  of  that  statement?    Less — less,  no. 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


49 


plus,  oh,  plus  five.  How  I  do  hate  these  old  hoggy 
problems.  How  can  I  be  expected  to  work  them 
when  I  don't  know  anything  about  farms  and  pigs 
and  such  things?  Now,  what's  the  next  statement? 
One-sixth  the  number  in  the  first  drove  lacks — 
I  wonder  hov/  I  had  better  fix  my  hair  to-night? 
Shall  I  pomp  it  and  do  it  in  two  knots  with  big 
bov/s  or  shall  I  part  it  and  do  it  low  with  one  big 
bovv?  Tom  says — though,  of  course,  I  don't  care 
what  he  thinks — but  he  says  I'm  better  looking  with 
it  parted  and  done  low.  Still,  I  don't  think  it 
looks  quite  so  swell  that  way,  and — yes,  I  believe 
I'd  rather  look  swell  than  pretty. 

(Reads.)  One-sixth  the  number  in  the  first  drove 
lacks  two — now  let's  see,  that  will  be  one-sixth  Y. 
Um-ni-m-m,  no,  one-sixth  X  minus — minus — I'm 
glad  the  party  is  to  be  at  Redding's  because 
they  have  just  the  swellest  place  to  sit  on  the  stairs 
and  talk  to  your — to  the  boys,  I  mean.  Miss  Curtis, 
tlie  Latin  teacher,  says  it  isn't  nice  to  sit  off  one 
side  that  way,  but  I  think  it  is  swell.  She  says  it  is 
spooning,  but  we  don't  spoon.  We  just  talk  about 
how  we  hate  to  study  and  how  lovely  class  parties 
are  and  sa}^  things  about  how  dififerent  ones  look  in 
their  party  clothes. 

Gracious  me,  Fve  worked  at  this  horrid  problem 
a  half  hour  and  it  isn't  done  yet.  Now,  what  is  that 
second  statement?  One-sixth  X  minus  2 — no,  plus  2, 
equals  one-sixth  Y.  There !  Thank  goodness,  I've 
got  the  statements — the  problem's  most  done  now. 
Dear,  such  a  secret  as  I  have  for  to-night  at  the 
party,  and  not  one  of  the  class  knows  it.  I  have 
a  new  pink  waist  to  wear — the  most  beautiful  shade 
of  pink  with  low  neck  and  short  sleeves.  Won't  the 
girls  be  mad  v^hen  they  see  me?  I  bet  I'll  look  the 
nicest  of  any  girl  there — ^even  if  I  don't  have  my 
algebra  lesson  very  well  for  to-morrow.    I  suppose 


50 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


Tom  Williams  will  want  to  sit  on  the  stairs  and  talk 
to  me  for  an  hour—my,  he's  just  a  swell  talker  and 
he  always  takes  along  a  box  of  chocolate  creams,  too, 
and  I  think  it  looks  awful  swell  to  eat  chocolates  with 
short  sleeves  on — it  shows  off  your  arms  so  nice. 

Dear,  where  was  I  in  this  problem?  Let's  see,  you 
say — oh,  the  first  thing  is  to  get  rid  of  these  frac- 
tions. How  I  do  hate  fractions !  Stingy  things !  I 
don't  believe  in  dealing  in  -anything  less  than  whole 
numbers.  Now  you  say  X  minus  8 — ^no,  that  is  2X 
minus — minus---oh,  Fm  good  notion  to  tell  the  al- 
gebra teacher  that  I  didn't  work  this  hog  problem 
because  my  folks  believe  that  pork  is  so — so  unhygienic 
that  we  don't  have  anything  to  do  with  it.  Oh,  I 
see  what  this  is  now,  2X  minus  16  equals  Y  plus  20 
and — um-m-m-m  2X  minus  Y  equals — oh,  yes,  36. 
Humph,  there  isn't  a  word  of  truth  in  this 
problem — the  idea  of  a  farmer  thinking  how  one-half 
the  pigs  in  one  drove  less  4  equals  one-fourth  the 
number  in  another  drove  less  5.  Why,  farmers  don't 
think  anything,  about  such  foolishness.  The  old 
farmer  that  mamma  buys  butter  and  eggs  of  even  has 
to  count  up  how  much  they  come  to  on  his  fingers. 

Now,  I  must  simplify  this  second  statement  and 
then  I'll  soon  be — oh,  there  is  Ella  Haines  coming 
past.  I'm  going  to  run  out  and  tell  her  about  my 
new  waist  and  see  what  she  says.  I  know  she  will 
be  mad. 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


51 


A  NEW  LEASE  OF  LIFE. 

Discoz'ered,  Mrs.  Perkins,  an  in-jalid,  sitting  in  a 
rocker  with  pillows  and  shawls. 

IMrs.  Perkins.  Come  in,  ]\Irs.  Williams,  an'  have 
a  chair.  Pm  real  glad  you  come  over — I  do  get  so 
lonesome  3ittmg  here  day  after  day.  Nobody  knows 
till  they  have  to  endure  a  spell  o£  it  how  tiresome 
it  is  not  to  be  able  to  get  around.  No,  I  don't  feel 
any  better,  thanks.  Pm  dreadful  poorly  to-day.  I 
can't  sa}'  as  P'ni  really  Vv'orse,  but  I  can  see  Pm 
gradually  going  down  hill — jist  a  little  weaker  and 
more  r^^n  down  ev'ry  day.  No,  I  don't  really  know 
what's  the  matter.  The  doctor  just  can't  seem  to 
be  able  to  lind  a  name  for  my  trouble — it's  so  kind 
of  complicated,  I  s'pose.  AVe've  had  Doctor  Waring 
^ver  from  I\ierton,  too,  but  my  case  seemed  to 
baffle  him  completely.  He  acted  real  put  out  about 
It.  What?  You  heard  he  said  there  wasn't  anything 
the  matter  ^«vith  me  an'  I  could  get  up  an'  go  to  work 
if  I  had  a  mind  to?  The  idea!  Perhaps  when  Pm 
lying  cold  an'  still  an'  dead  he'll  change  his  mind. 
Oh,  my,  no,  I  can't  eat  much  of  anything!  Really, 
I  haven't  appetite  enough  to  keep  a  bird  ahve,  but 
I  just  miake  myself  eat  a  little  because  I  don't  want 
to  get  clear  doAvn  till  I  have  to.  I  s'pose  the  end'U 
come  soon  enough.  Now,  if  I  only  could  eat.  The 
breakfast  smelled  so  good  this  morning  when  Henry 
was  getting  it  ready  that  I  thought  Pd  give  an^^thing 
to  be  able  to  eat  a  regular  meal.  I  managed  to  choke 
down  some  warmed-up  potatoes  an'  a  slice  of  bacon 


52 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


with  a  couple  of  fried  eggs  an*  a  few  pancakes  an' 

a  couple  of  fried  cakes  with  my  coffee,  but  I  said  to 
Henry^  "Oh,  if  I  could  only  sit  down  an'  relish  a 
good  square  meal  like  you  do,  how  thankful  I'd  be." 
This  having-  to  coax  your  appetite  is  dreadful.  Oh, 
I  want  to  thank  you  for  the  mince  pie  you  sent  over 
this  morning.  It  does  seem  as  if  your  mince  pies 
are  'bout  the  best  I  ever  ate.  I  told  Henry  that 
what  I  didn't  eat  to-day  I  wanted  him  to  save  over 
for  me  till  to-morrow—it's  so  good  I  don't  want  any 
one  else  to  eat  it  up.  I  did  make  out  to  eat  quite  a 
bit  of  dinner  to-day-— thanks  to  your  pie  an'  the 
pork  cake  Mrs.  Harris  sent  over.  Henry  had  a 
boiled  dinner  an'  of  course  I  knew  I'd  suffer 
to  pay  for  it,  but  I  told  him  I  was  going  to  try  an' 
eat  a  little  of  it.  He  had  it  cooked  real  nice — for  a 
man — an'  I  coaxed  myself  into  trying  some  of  the 
meat  an'  boiled  cabbage  an'  turnips  an'  carrots,  Avith 
some  the  dumolings  an'  a  couple  of  soda  bis- 
cuits— an'  3^our  pie  an'  the  pork  cake  for  dessert. 
Oh,  if  a  person  can  only  keep  up  an  appetite  there's 
some  hope  for  'em,  but  when  they're  like  me  an' 
don't  eat  enough  to  keep  a  bird  alive  it  is  dreadful 
discouragin'. 

Yes,  Henry  does  the  work  now—course  the  chil- 
dren help  some— but  I  s'pose  we'll  have  to  get  a  hired 
girl  'fore  long.  No,  of  course  my  folks  don't  know 
how  bad  I  am.  Henry  wanted  to  write  for  some  of 
'em  to  come  an'  see  me,  but  I  said  to  wait  till 
I  was  worse.  W'y,  I  may  live  six  months  yet— -or 
even  longer.  I've  planned  all  'bout  how  I  want 
things,  though,  an'  told  Henry.  I  want  my  sister 
Mary  to  take  Ester,  our  youngest  girl,  an'  Harriet's 
going  to  her  grandma's,  my  mother,  an'  Frank's 
to  live  with  my  brother  Will  in  Montana. 

What?  You  think  my  husband  won't  want  to  give 
them  up?  Why,  of  course  he  won't  want  to,  but 
he'll  have  to.    What  can  he  do  with  a  family  of 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


53 


children^  What?  A  stepmother?  I\Iy  children  have  a 
stepmother?  Certainly  not.  I  wouldn't  rest  in  my 
grave  a  minute  if  I  thought  such  a  thing-  of  Henry. 
Only  the  other  day  I  was  telling  him  that  he'd  never 
be  able  to  find  any  one  to  take  my  place  an'  do  for 
him  as  I've  done.  He's  dreadful  particular,  Henry 
is.  "What?  i\,Iarcella  Hawkins?  She's  just  the  same 
as  said  she's  going  to  have  Henry  after  I'm  gone^ 
They  were  visiting  at  church  last  Sunday  as  if  they're 
old  lovers,  were  thev?  Thank  you,  ^Irs.  Williams, 
for  telling  me  this,  I'm  glad  to  find  it  out.  But  she 
better  wait— just  hand  me  the  flannel  skirt  out 
the  bottom  drawer  tnere.  please,  to  slip  on  under  my 
wrapper.  I'll  show  tl:',t  T^.Iarcella  Hawkins  I  ain't 
dead  yet.  And  just  get  me  my  shoes  out  the  corner 
of  the  closet — thank  yon.  What  am  I  going  to  do? 
Oh.  you  needn't  be  scared.  I'm  not  crazy.  I'm  just 
going  to  get  up  an'  get  supper  an'  have  it  ready 
when  Henry  gets  home.  Oh,  it  may  use  me  up 
some,  but  I'll  let  th^  t  scheming  ^larcella  Hawkins 
see  that  she  ain't  going  to  smile  over  my  coffin  for 
a  while  3^et  or  get  her  hands  on  my  husband.  If  you 
see  her  tell  her  I'm  going  to  fn^  my  own  doughriuts 
to-morrow  and  she  needn't  send  Henry  over  any 
more  of  hers. 

Oh.  must  you  go?  Well,  come  over  again  soon. 
Like  enough  I'll  run  over  to  see  you  next  week. 
That  bold,  designing  i\larcella  Hawkins.  Step- 
mother, indeed! 


54  HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


BREAKING  THE  NEWS  GENTLY. 

Good  morning,  Mrs.  Ellis.  No,  thank  you,  I  can't 
set  down.  I  got  my  flats  on  to  heat  an'  I  jes'  run  over 
to  do  a  little  errant.  Yes,  it  is  a  lovely  day — an'  I'm 
glad  of  it  'cause  it  seems  as  if  bad  news  sets  a  little 
easier  on  a  bright  day — though  it's  hard  'nough  any 
time,  Ian'  knows.  Who's  got  bad  news?  Er, 
wal,  I  s'pose  lots  of  folks  round  us  has.  Glad  you 
ain't  got  any?  Um-m-m-m,  wal,  you  can't  never 
be  sure.  Now  I  came  over  to  tell  you — I  said  to 
the  folks  that  I  wanted  to  tell  you  first  so's  to  break  it 
to  you  real  gentle,  an'  I  thought  you'd  mebbe  take 
it  a  mite  easier  comin'  from  a  near  neighbor  an'  ol* 
friend.  What?  Now,  my  dear,  don't  you  git  ex- 
cited. You  mus'  keep  calm.  Yes,  Fll  hurry  an'  tell 
you.  Now  don't  git  narvous.  Trouble  comes  to  us 
all — though,  of  course,  it  ain't  much  to  git  worked 
up  over  'cause  your  brother  Joseph's  barn  burnt  up. 
What?  You  don't  call  that  trouble?  No,  course 
not — I  told  you  not  to  get  excited.  Yes,  his  barn's 
all  burnt  down — burnt  this  mornin'  'bout  seven 
o'clock.  It  caught  fire  from  the  house.  What? 
Who's  house?  W'y,  your  brother  Joseph's  house. 
Ye-es,  his  house  is  burnt  too — that's  what  set  the 
bam  on  fire.  You're  thankful  it  ain't  no  worse?  La, 
yes,  things  might  alius  be  more  dreatfuler'n  they  be. 

Trouble  comes  to  us  all  an'  we  mus'  bear  up  an' 
try  to  make  the  best  of  things.  Yes,  the  house  burnt 
down  the  same  time  he  got  his  leg  broke.  Who  got 
his  leg  broke  ?  W'y,  your  brother  Joseph's  oldest  son, 
Peter.    Now,  now,  Mis'  Ellis,  you  mus'n't  git  all 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


55 


up-sot,  an'  me  tryin'  to  break  things  to  you  so 
gentle.  Yes,  the  poor  boy  broke  his  leg  ridin'  so 
fast  after  the  doctor.  Who  was  he  g'oin'  after  the 
doctor  for?  Now,  now,  don't  git  narvous.  Yes,  I'll 
tell  you  right  away.  He  was  after  the  doctor  for  his 
mother — your  brother  Joseph's  wife,  poor  soul.  She 
was  workin'  over  the  oil  stove  when  she  made  a  mis- 
take with  it  an'  it  blew  up  an'  burnt  'er  real  bad. 
That's  what  set  the  house  afire,  you  see.  There, 
there,  now,  don't  you  feel  bad !  It  might  a  bin  a 
awful  lot  worse.  Will  she  .git  w^ell?  Dear,  dear, 
it's  hard  to  tell !  She  was  feelin'  dreatful  poorly 
when  it  happened,  'cause  she  was  so  used  up  over 
her  awful  loss.  What  loss?  Now,  do  be  calm.  Mis' 
Ellis.  Yes,  yes,  I'll  hurry  an'  tell  you.  The  loss  of 
her  husban'.  Your  poor  brother  Joseph  died  in  the 
night  las'  night  of  heart  trouble.  That's  what  made 
his  wife,  poor  dear,  feel  so  bad  that  she  made  the 
mistake  with  the  oil  stove  an'  blew  it  up,  an'  bum 
down  the  house  an'  barn,  an'  be  the  cause  of  the 
poor  boy  a  breakin'  his  leg,  'cause  your  brother  had 
jes'  died  so  suddin.  Yes,  that's  what  the  messenger 
said.  There,  there,  now,  don't  feel  bad — you  mus'n't 
give  way  to  your  grief,  'cause  the}^  want  you  to 
come  right  over  to  Joseph's  as  soon  as  you  can. 
They  sent  a  messenger  over  to  tell  you  'bout  things 
an'  he  stopped  at  my  house  to  ask  where  you  lived, 
an'  when  he  told  me  "bout  things  I  said  I  was  comin' 
right  over  here  myself  an'  tell  you,  so's  to  break  it 
to  you  gentle.  Seems  like  we  can  stand  sorrer  bet- 
ter if  it  comes  to  us  sorter  easy.  Now,  now,  don't 
take  on,  Mis'  Ellis.  Yes,  the  man's  a  waitin'  over 
to  my  house  for  you,  to  take  you  back  with  him. 
La,  now.  Mis'  Ellis,  don't  fly  'round  so— -youTi  use 
yourself  all  up.  Wal  I'll  ' go  back  an'  tell  the  man 
you're  gittin'  ready. 


§6 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


MOLLIE'S  EULOGY  ON  COUNTRY  LIFE. 

MoLLiE.  Oh,  it's  all  very  well  for  you  to  say  it 
is  nicer  to  live  in  the  city  than  in  the  country,  Miss 
Evangeline  Winthrop,  but  I  wouldn't  change  from 
the  country  to  the  city  for  anything.  Man  made  the 
city,  but  God  made  the  country,  so,  of  course,  it  is 
the  best  place  to  live.  I  suppose  you  think  that  sky- 
scrapers and  factories  and  chimneys  and  spires  are 
picturesque,  but  I  prefer  the  sylvan  dells  and  cool 
retreats  of  the  country  woodlands.  The  poet,  Bryant, 
says : 

'These  shades 
Are  still  the  abode  of  gladness ;  the  thick  roof 
Of  green  and  stirring  branches  is  alive 
And  musical  with  birds  that  sing  and  sport 
In  wantonness  of  spirit ;  while  below 
The  squirrel,  with  raised  paws  and  form  erect, 
Chirps  merrily." 

Now,  doesn't  that  sound  inviting?  It  makes  me 
feel  as  if  I  could  lie  right  down  under  that  green 
roof,  watching  the  birds  and  squirrels,  and  stay  a 
week.  What?  You  think  I'd  get  bugs  in  my  ears  if 
I  did,  and  catch  my  death  of  cold?  Well,  I  suppose 
there  aren't  any  insects  in  the  city,  for  they  all  get 
run  over  by  the  trolley  cars  or  the  truck  wagons  or 
autom.obiles  or  fire  engines  or  crowded  out  of  exist- 
ence by  the  "teeming  thousands"  of  inhabitants ;  but 
at  least  bugs  in  your  ears  aren't  any  worse  than 
smoke  in  your  throat  and  cinders  in  your  eyes. 

And  think  of  all  the  lovely  sunrises  and  sunsets 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


57 


we  have  in  the  country — how  beautiful  they  are. 
What?  You  have  sunrises  and  sunsets  in  the  city, 
too?  Oh,  yes,  of  course,  but  in  the  city  the  poor  old 
sun  rises  out  of  a.  skyscraper  and  sets  in  a  factory 
chimney.  Why,  certainly  the  country  is  the  best 
place  to  live.  Just  think  of  all  the  lovely  thing's  that 
poets  and  all  sorts  of  writers  have  said  about  the 
country,  but  who  ever  thinks  of  writing-  that  way 
about  the  cities?  All  the  poets  like  to  write  about 
Nature,  and  the  cities  are  so  progressive  that  dear 
Mother  Nature  is  crowded  out  of  sight.  Our  be- 
loved Longfellow  says : 

"If  thou  art  worn  and  hard  beset 
With  sorrows,  that  thou  wouldst  forget. 
If  thou  wouldst  read  a  lesson  that  vail  keep 
Thy  heart  from  fainting,  and  thy  soul  from  sleep, 
Go  to  the  woods  and  hills.    No  tears 
Dim  the  sweet  look  that  Nature  wears." 

What?  You  think  that  at  least  the  city  people  are 
nicer  than  the  country  folks  ?  Why,  the  idea !  Just 
think  of  all  the  splendid  things  that  have  been  writ- 
ten about  country  people.  There's  Whittier's  piece 
about  the  barefoot  boy  with  cheek  of  tan — he  was  a 
country  boy— and  fair  Maud  Muller,  with  her  hay  ■< 
rake,  that  the  stylish  judge  fell  in  love  with — the 
maiden,  I  mean,  not  the  hay  rake,  and  the  poem 
about  "Little  brown  hands  that  drive  home  the  cows 
from  the  pasture,"  that  says  the  countr}^  children 
are  the  ones  that  become  mighty  rulers  of  state.  And 
what  a  lot  of  nice  things  have  been  written  about 
the  fascinating  milkmaid  with  the  pretty  face  and 
dainty  sunbonnet.  What?  The  only  milkmaids  you 
have  ever  seen  in  the  country  were  hired  men,  who 
wore  dreadful  hats  and  cowhide  boots?  Why,  shame 
on  you,  Evangeline  Winthrop,  I  know  some  lovely 
farmer  girls  who  can  milk — I  can  myself,  only  I  like 
to  practice  my  music  lesson  better. 


58 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


What  did  you  say?  You  aon't  like  the  country 
because  it  is  so  still?  Well,  I  don't  see  how  3^ou  can 
call  it  still  when  there  are  so  many  birds  singing  and 
roosters  crowing  and  hens  cackling  and  sheep  bleat- 
ing and  cattle  lowing  and  turkeys  and  geese  and 

fuinea  hens — what?  That  racket  don't  count?  Well, 
'm  sure  I'd  rather  listen  to  it  than  to  the  clang  of 
the  trolley  cars  and  rumble  of  delivery  wagons  and 
bells  and  whistles  and  everything  you  have  in  the 
city. 

And  just  think  of  all  the  great  folks  that  have 
lived  on  farms  and  enjoyed  country  life — Washing- 
ton and  Lincoln  and  Garfield  and  Frances  Willard 
and  {ivith  a  sweeping  gesture)  myself.  What?  We 
don't  have  any  art  galleries  and  lovely  churches  and 
libraries  and  such  things  in  the  country?  Humph, 
we  don't  need  them — we  have  so  many  natural  pic- 
tures that  we  don't  need  the  painted  ones,  and  Bryant 
says,  'The  groves  were  God's  first  temples,"  so  we 
can  get  along  without  grand  churches.  As  for 
libraries,  we  live  where  there  are 

''Stories  in  running  brooks, 
And  sermons  in  stones." 


HUMOROUS  MOXOLOGUES. 


59 


A  MORXIXG  RIDE. 

Scene:    A  trolley  car. 
Enter  a  School  Girl  on  her  ivay  to  high  school 

School  Girl.  Oh,  my.  I  thought  sure  I  was 
going  to  miss  this  car  and  be  late  for  school,  though 
I  can't  see  for  the  life  of  rne  why  prof  is  so  op- 
posed to  a  few  tardy  m.arks.  Such  a  bother  to  have 
to  get  to  school  by  nine,  an}*^vay.  I  have  to  rush 
so  to  get  ready  that  I  always  hurry  off  with  some- 
thing only  half  done — either  m.y  hair  half  com.bed 
or  my  breakfast  half  eaten  or  my  lessons  half  pre- 
pared or  something  of  the  sort.  Papa  says  a  ride  in 
the  morning  does  me  good,  but  I'm  sure  I'd  rather 
have  a  chance  to  sleep  longer.  The  '"'beauty  sleep" 
miay  be  before  m.idnight.  but  the  dandiest  sleep  is 
after  seven  in  the  morning.  Oh.  here  comies  I\Iarie 
Denton.  (As  if  to  someone  entering.)  Ahem!  Oh, 
Marie,  come  and  sit  by  me.  Isn't  this  the  loveliest 
morning.  I  hurried  so  to  be  in  time  for  my  car  that 
usually  get  such  an  early  start.  You  waited  to  help 
with  the  work  ?  ^lercy  sakes !  I  never  do  a  stitch  of 
work  in  the  m.orning.  You  must  get  up  early. 
Seven  o'clock-  \A'hy,  Marie  Denton.  I'd  die  if  I 
got  up  at  that  unearthly  hour.  I  always  sleep  till 
quarter  of  eight.  Have  to  hurry ^  I  should  say  sol 
I  just  jump  into  my  clothes,  eat  a  mouthful  of  break- 
fast and  off  I  go.  How  swell  your  hair  looks  this 
morning.  I  hurried  so  to  be  in  time  for  my  car  that 
I  look  like  a  fright.  (Giggles.)  Your  hat  is  pretty, 
too.    What  a  bother  it  is  to  choose  hats.    I  never 


60 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


get  the  one  I  want— that  is,  after  Fve  bought  it  I 
always  wish  I  had  got  some  other  one.  What  ?  You 
don't  say!  A  new  silk  waist?  Why,  Marie  Denton, 
you  do  have  the  most  clothes.  Now,  I  haven't  had 
anything  for  an  awful  long  time.  My  blue  suit? 
Oh,  my,  I've  had  that  for  ages! 

Really,  is  that  so?  Why,  you  don't  mean  Miss 
Williams,  our  Latin  teacher?  And  she's  going  to 
be  married,  you  say — as  homely  as  she  is?  Well,  I 
have  hopes  for  myself  when  I  get  older,  then. 
(Giggles.)  \yhat?  Homely  folks  are  usually  good? 
Humph,  I  think  she's  got  a  horrid  disposition — the 
way  she  went  for  me  in  Latin  class  yesterday.  And 
I  wasn't  doing  a  thing,  either — just  laughing  at 
Fred  Horton's  attempt  to  eat  chocolates  without  be- 
ing caught  at  it,  (To  the  Conductor.)  Fare?  Oh, 
dear,  where  is  my  handbag?  Did  you  see  it,  Marie? 
I  wonder  if  I  didn't  bring  it — I  came  off  in  such  a 
hurry.  Oh,  here,  I  was  sitting  on  it.  Such  a  bother 
to  have  to  pay  fare,  isn't  it?  Wish  I  could  get 
charged  for  mine  and  then  pay  them  all  up  at  the 
end  of  the  month — only  Fd  be  sure  to  spend  my 
change  for  candy  and  not  have  anything  left  to 
pay  carfare.  Oh,  Marie,  here  comes  the  swellest- 
looking  young  man — no,  not  that  one~-the  one  with 
the  light  coat.  He  takes  the  car  Fm  on  nearly 
every  morning,  and  I  believe  he  is  smitten  with  me, 
for  it  seems  as  if  he  watches  me  all  the  time  and 
acts  as  if  he  wanted  to  get  acquainted  with  me. 
Nice  looking,  isn't  he?  I  wonder  who  he  is  and 
what  he  does?  What?  You  know  him?  And  he's 
married?  And  got  a  baby  a  month  old?  Why,  I 
don't  believe  it.  You're  sure?  Well,  Fm  beat! 
He's  awfully  young  looking  to  have  a  family — but 
you  never  can  tell  about  these  men  who  don't  wear 
a  mustache — it  makes  them  look  so  young.  Humph, 
I  shall  turn  him  down  good  the  next  time  I  see  him 
looking  at  me  and  smiling.    Maybe  he  smiles  be- 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


61 


cause  he's  so  happy  over  the  baby?'  Well,  he  needn't 
look  at  me,  anyhow. 

Gracious,  isn't  that  the  funniest-looking-  man  sit- 
ting- over  there?  I  bet  he's  a  cannibal  or  something- 
aw&ul.  Oh,  dear,  I'm  afraid  he  heard  me — ^how 
dreadful!  (Giggles.)  Vm  always  g:ettino-  in  some 
trouble.  Oh,  say,  have  you  heard  about  Nell  Evans 
and  Jack  \\'ebster?  No?  Well,  they've  broken  of¥ 
again — that  makes  four  times  since  Christmas. 
Aren't  they  the  craziest  couple What?  You  think 
Nell  is  most  to  blame?  Oh,  my.  yes,  she's  awful 
peppery.  I  don't  believe  Jack  cares  about  her,  any- 
way, but  she  is  so  gone  on  him  that  she  won't  give 
him  up.  Um-hum,  I  think  so,  too.  Say,  have  you 
got  your  geometry  lesson  for  to-day?  Gee,  I  think 
I  shall  flunk — it's  just  dreadful!  What's  the  sense 
of  all  that  lingo  about  old  lines  and  angles  and 
corollaries  and  capillaries,  and  right-angled  triangles 
and  triangled  right  angles  and  everything?  They 
just  make  my  brain  dizzy.  The  only  part  of  it  I 
like  is  where  it  ends  up  v/ith  quod  erat  demon- 
strandum— I  just  love  Latin.  What?  You  like 
geometry  ?  How  funny !  You  were  excellent  in 
the  last  exam?  Well,  I  wasn't.  I  only  got  fair,  and 
I'm  expecting  a  con  next  timie.  (Giggles.) 

Oh,  here  comes  Jennie  Edwards.  I  hope  she  won't 
sit  b\'  us.  Doesn't  her  hair  look  frightful?  And 
that  hat  is  enough  to  stagger  a  blind  man.  (As  if 
to  person  entering.)  Why,  hello,  Jennie.  Whv, 
yes,  of  course,  there's  room  for  you  here  by  us. 
The  more  the  merrier!  Your  hair?  Why,  what 
makes  you  think  it  looks  bad?  You've  got  it  fixed 
lovely.  O,  say.  girls,  I've  got' a  secret — if  you'll  both 
promise  never  to  tell  it.  I  know  it's  true,  because 
Edith  Haines  told  Blanche  Johnson  confidentiallv 
and  Blanche  told  Rose  Smith  and  Rose  told  me.  Of 
course,  I  promised  not  to  tell,  but  if  you'll  swear  on 
your  honor  not  to  breathe  a  word  of  it  I'll  tell  you. 


82  HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


What?    You  cross  your  hearts  and  hope  to  die? 
All  right.    Well,  Luella  Jones'  folks  have  lost  all 
their  money  and  her  father  is  clerking  in  a  grocery  : 
store,  and  they're  living^  in  a  little  house,  and  that's  j 
why  Luella  is  staying  here  with  her  aunt  and  going 
to  school.    Isn't  that  awful — and  Luella  so  stuck  up 
you  can't  touch  her  with  a  ten-foot  pole.  What? 
She  isn't  to  blame  because  they're  poor?     No-o,  , 
but  she  needn't  be  so  high  and  mighty.  Um-hum, 
I  think  so,  too. 

Oh,  I  wonder  who  this  young  man  is  who's  wait- 
ing here  on  the  corner  for  the  car?    I've  noticed  j 
him  ever  so  many  times  before.    Isn't  his  hair  lovely?  i 
Oh,  do  you  really  know  him?    Do  introduce  me  \ 
when  he  comes  in.    It's  awfully  nice  to  know  folks, 
and  then  you  get  a  chance  to  talk  sometimes.  Papa 
and   mam.ma   are   so  strict   about   my   looking  at 
strangers.    Oh,  here  he  is!     (Giggles.)    How  do  | 
you  do?    (Giggles.)    Yes,  I've  noticed  you  lots  of  j 
times  when  I've  been  going  down  in  the  morning. 
Oh,  thank  you!.    (Giggles.)    Oh,  a  chocolate?  My, 
I   just   love  them — don't   you,    girls?  (Giggles.) 
What?    Another?    Oh,  just  one  more — thank  you. 
Oh,  that's  too  bad.     (Giggles.)    Yes,  boys  are  al- 
ways so  modest.    (Giggles.)    Dear  me,  girls,  here's 
where  we  get  off.    Jennie,  don't  forget  your  book — 
oh,  no,  that's  my  own.    Where's  my  lunch  box? 
Oh,  thank  you — so  glad  to  have  met  you.    Do  come 
on,  girls,  or  we'll  be  late  and  get  one  of  prof's  polite 
I'ttle  lectures.    Such  a  bother  to  go  to  school,  any- 
way. 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


63 


AUNT  jERUSHA  VISITS  THE  CITY. 

Aunt  Jerusha.  Oh,  how  do  do,  Hester?  Come 
in  an'  have  a  chair.  Yes,  I'm  back  again  an'  glad  to 
be  home,  too,  Ye-es,  I  had  a  real  good  time  down 
to  Mary's,  but  I  don't  care  much  'bout  livin'  in  the 
city  nor  stayin'  in  a  flat,  fer  that  matter.  The  truth 
is  the  city's  too  big  an'  a  flat's  too  little  to  suit  my 
fancy — though  Mary  thinks  it's  next  thing  to  heaven, 
I  guess.  Wal,  ev'ry  one  to  their  taste,  I  say,  but 
jes'  excuse  me  from,  livin'  like  Mary  does.  Oh, 
yes,  she's  got  things  nice  'nough,  I  s'pose,  but  I 
don't  care  to  live  where  I  ain't  got  room  to  turn 
round  without  bumpin'  into  something,  an'  have  to 
go  out  doors  to  draw  a  long  breath. 

Oh,  yes,  Mary's  got  nice  furnerture,  but  it's  a 
dreadful  queer  kind — a  deceivin'  kind  where  you 
don't  know  whether  a  thing's  a  pianny,  er  a  bed,  er 
a  clothes  press,  er  a  ice  box.  Fer  my  part  I  don't 
fancy  furnerture  that  its  outsides  an'  insides  don't 
match  an'  you  can't  tell  from  lookin'  at  'em  what 
the  inside's  goin'  to  turn  out  to  be.  Yes,  a  flat  is 
the  beatinest  thing  I  ever  did  see.  When  I  come  to 
go  to  bed  that  first  night  down  to  Mary's  I  thought 
I  never  did  see  sech  arrangements  in  all  my  born 
days,  ner  before  er  since,  fer  that  matter.  I  slep'  in 
a  little  place  that  she  calls  the  library — though  I 
think  it's  a  whole  lot  more  lie  than  brary — an'  when 
Mary  says,  says  she,  ''This  is  where  you're  goin'  to 
sleep,  Aunt  Jerushy,"  I  says,  ''Land  a  massy,  have 
I  got  to  git  inter  my  nightgownd  right  here  where 
ev'rybody  can  see  me  ?"  An'  Mary  she  laughs  an*  says, 


64 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


"Course  not/'  an'  what  you  s'pose?  She  walked  up 
an'  pulled  some  doors  out  of  a  crack  in  the  wall  an* 
slid  'em  up  together,  an'  lo  an'  behold,  there  was 
a  little  room  shut  off  by  itself.  "Wal,"  I  says,  "this 
is  all  right  fer  a  room  now  that  you've  put  a  wall 
in  this  side  of  it,  but  do  you  'spect  me  to  sleep  on 
that  little  settee?"  Mary  she  said  no,  an'  you  could 
a  knocked  me  plum'  over  with  a  feather.  If  she 
didn't  begin  a  fussin'  with  the  bookcase  an'  pullin' 
it  here  an'  pushin'  it  there,  an'  out  come  a  lot  of 
insides  that  was  mattress  an'  beddin',  an'  first  thing 
I  knew  there  was  a  bed  set  up  ready  fer  me  to  sleep 
in.  *'Fer  the  mercy  land,"  says  I,  ''does  it  do  that 
ev'ry  night?"  "Yes,"  says  Mary,  "an'  goes  back  to 
a  bookcase  every  mornin'."  "Wal,"  says  I,  "if  it's 
all  the  same  to  you  I  wanter  git  out  of  its  jaws  'fore 
it  gits  the  book  case  feelin's  on  in  the  mornin'." 

Then  the  next  thing  Mary  histed  up  the  kivver 
of  the  settee  an'  says,  says  she,  "Now  this  is  the 
clothes  press.  Aunt  Jerushy,  an'  you  can  jus'  put  your 
things  right  in  here."  An'  then  says  she,  "Oh,  I 
forgot  to  take  the  Morris  cliair  out  in  the  other  room 
fer  to  make  Jimmie's  bed  of."  "What?"  says  I, 
"does  the  poor  little  feller  have  to  sleep  on  a  chair?" 
An'  then  she  showed  me  how  the  big  armxhair  let 
down  its  back  an'  made  a  bed.  "When  it  gits  some 
quilts  an'  pillers  in  it,"  says  Mary,  "it  makes  a  real 
nice  bed  fer  Jimmie,  seein'  he's  little." 

"An'  where  do  you  an'  Henry  sleep?"  says  I,  "in 
the  ice  box  er  the  chiny  closit?"  An'  Mary  jes' 
laughed  an'  says,  "No,  Henry  an'  me  sleep  in  the 
pianny.  It  lets  down  jes'  like  this  one  of  yours  an* 
is  a  dreadful  nice  bed  to  sleep  in."  Yes,  as  true  as 
I'm  a  settin'  in  this  chair  a  lookin'  you  in  the  face, 
Hester,  that  is  the  way  ev'ry  thing  is  down  to 
Mary's.  She's  got  cheers  that  fold  up  an'  lay  away 
when  she  ain't  got  comp'ny,  an'  a  table  that  folds 
up,  an'  if  you'll  believe  it,  she  has  most  of  'er  dishes 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


Stuck  up  round  the  wall  same  as  if  they  was  chrome 
picters. 

An'  sech  a  funny  way  of  eatin'  as  they  have  you 
never  did  see.  That  first  night  when  we  went  to 
the  table  I  sorter  looked  at  what  they  was  to  eat  an' 
I  says  to  myself.  '''\A'al,  it's  a  dreadful  good  thing 
that  I  got  a  lunch  at  Jefferson  when  we  stopped 
there,  fer  this  is  the  barrenist  lookin'  supper  table 
I  ever  did  set  eyes  on.""  An'  I  thought  it  nius'  be 
that  Clary's  man  hadn't  bin  doin'  very  well  lately 
makin'  money,  er  she'd  have  somethin'  better  to  eat 
long  as  she  knowed  I  was  comin".  \\  al.  we  begin 
to  eat.  an'  sech  carryin's  on  you  never  did  witness. 
There  was  a  girl  with  a  white  cap  an"  apern  an' 
she'd  bring  in  a  few  things  an'  leave  'em  awhile  an'' 
then  she'd  trot  "em  oft"  an"  bring  some  clean  plates 
an'  some  stuft'  to  eat.  an'  bimeby  come  an'  take  it 
way  from  you  an'  bring  miore  clean  dishes  an'  a 
little  more  to  eat,  till  I  was  jes'  disgtisted.  and  sech 
funny  things  to  eat.  too— stuft'  done  up  in  a  lettuce 
leaf  and  trimmed  up  with  green  vines  an'  hashed  up 
things  that  ]\Iary  called  salads  an'  froze-up  puddin's, 
an'  land  only  knows  what — some  of  'em  with  the 
most  redic'lus  names  you  ever  heerd. 

2\Iy,  yes,  it's  awful  noisy  in  the  city — why,  that 
first  night  I  hardly  got  a  wink  of  sleep,  they  was 
sech  dreadful  sounds  goin'  on  all  the  time.  When 
I  got  up  in  the  moniin"  I  says  to  }\Iary.  ''"Fer  the 
land  of  goodness,  what  was  goin'  on  in  the  night 
that  kep'  sech  a  rackit^  Was  there  a  dreadful  fire 
er  was  they  havin'  one  them  strike  rows  the  papers 
tell  'bout?''  An'  ]\Iary  she  says.  ''W'y.  I  didn't 
hear  anything.  I  gtiess  it  was  the  street  cars  and 
delivery  wagons  an'  milk  carts  an'  sech  things  you 
heerd."  An'  I  jes'  said.  '''WdX.  if  they  make  all  that 
pow-wow  jes'  fer  common  I'd  hate  to  be  here  when 
they's  anything  special  goin'  on."" 

Did  I  go  to  theater?^    Wal.  now  Hester.  I  wasn't 


66 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


goin'  to  tell  a  word  'bout  that,  it  was  so  scand'lous, 
but  seein'  you  have  asked  me  point  blank  ri^ht  out 
loud  in  plain  words,  I'll  tell  you  that  I  did,  but  I 
don't  want  you  to  tell  a  soul.  I  was  never  so  beat 
in  my  life  as  when  we  got  there,  'cause  I  s'posed 
we  was  goin'  to  some  sort  of  church  doin's  the  way 
Mary  talked,  but  after  we'd  bin  there  awhile  an' 
they  begun  to  carr}^  on  so  scand'lous  on  the  stage,  I 
jes'  leant  over  and  whispered  to  Mary  an'  says, 
''Mary  Stebbins,  is  this  here  one  them  theaters  I've 
heerd  tell  of?"  An'  she  says,  'Wy,  yes,  don't  you 
like  it?"  An'  I  says,  ''I've  walked  the  straight  an' 
narrer  way  fer  twenty-three  year  come  next  spring 
an'  I  ain't  goin'  to  fall  down  into  no  pit  of  sin  at 
this  late  day — I'm  goin'  right  home."  Mary  see  I 
was  real  worked  up  an'  I  guess  she'd  a  gone  with 
me,  but  'er  husban'  said  he'd  paid  out  hard-earnt 
cash  an'  he  was  goin'  to  see  the  finish,  bein'  that 
there  wasn't  nothin'  bad  'bout  it.  Wal,  I  jes'  had  to 
sit  there  till  it  was  out.  Part  of  it  was  real  nice,  but 
some  of  it  was  sech  as  to  make  folks  blush  an'  want 
to  hide  fer  shame,  an'  at  sech  times  I  jes'  hid  behind 
my  hankychief  an'  kep'  it  from  my  eyes  if  I  couldn't 
from  my  ears. 

Oh,  yes,  I  went  round  the  city  quite  a  bit  with 
Mary  an'  seen  lots  of  things,  some  of  'em  real  nice 
an'  some  jes'  dreadful.  One  day  Mary  took  me  to  a 
art  place  that  she  said  was  jes'  fine,  an'  if  you'll 
believe  it  they  had  all  sorts  of  staturary  an'  some  of 
'em  without  no  clothes  on  that  was  awful.  There  was 
a  man  there  that  seemed  to  be  sort  of  bossin',  an' 
I  says  to  'im,  "Sir,  'fore  you  let  any  more  Christian 
wimmin  like  myself  in  here  to  view  them  things  you 
better  dress  'em.  If  you  can't  afford  nothin'  else 
you  can  put  a  little  caliker  on  'em."  Yes,  Hester, 
I'm  glad  to  be  home,  an'  here  I  stay  the  rest  of 
my  days.    The  city's  too  many  fer  me. 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


67 


A  CHANCE  MEETING. 
Scene:   A  railway  car. 

Discovered,  Miss  Winthrop^   traveling  without  a 
chaperon. 

Miss  Winthrop.  How  strangel}'^  familiar  that 
gentleman  across  the  aisle  looks.  I'm  sure  I  must 
have  met  him  somewhere.  Let  me  see — last  winter  in 
New  York — or  was  it  last  summer  at  Lake  Ten- 
nayaka — or  while  I  was  in  the  AVest?  I  am  per- 
fectly sure  I  have  met  him  some  place  or  he 
wouldn't  impress  me  so  sirongly.  (Thinks.)  I  have 
it — he  was  at  Mrs.  Gordon-Rathburne's  last  summer 
during  her  house  party — Fm  sure  of  it.  Now  what 
is  his  name?  (Thinks.)  Houston?  No,  Houston 
w^as  short  and  fat  and  homely,  while  this  man  looks 
as  soulful  as  a  Greek  god.  Merrivale?  Let  me  see. 
No-o,  he  was  the  captain  who  was  so  nice  to  all  the 
ladies  in  general  and  to  no  one  in  particular,  because 
he  had  lost  a  sweetheart  ten  years  before.  How  ex- 
asperating! I  wish  I  could  rememiber  him — or  rather 
his  name.  (Thinks.)  Um-m-m-m,  oh,  I  w^onder 
now — yes,  I  do  believe  it  is  I\Ir.  Qaremont,  the  aw- 
fully swell  golf  player — no,  that  was  Dicky  War- 
burton.  Dear  me,  how  aggravating  to  have  the 
recollection  so  near  and  yet  so  far — to  know^  and  not 
to  know,  as  it  were.  Oh,  of  course !  How  could  I 
have  forgotten?  He  is  the  wonderful  Mr.  Clare- 
mont  who  plays  Shakespearian  parts  and  who  is  a 
pet  of  Mrs.  Gordon-Rathhurne.     I  remember  how 


6S  HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 

much  his  dramatic  manner  impressed  me — I  suppose 
that  is  why  I  recognize  him  to-day. 

I'll  go  and  speak  to  him.  Of  course  he  will  not 
remember  me — ^he  meets  such  crowds  of  people  dur- 
ing the  year,  but  he  will  certainly  recall  our  being 
at  Mrs.  Gordon-Rathburne's.  I  remember  his  soulful 
eyes  and  expressive  countenance  perfectly.  He  im- 
presses one  instantly  as  being  above  ordinary  mortals. 
Perhaps  it  isn't  just  the  thing  for  me  to  speak  to 
him,  especially  as  I  am  traveling  without  a  chaperon, 
but  it  will  relieve  the  monotony  of  my  trip  and  will 
be  all  right,  since  he  is  in  our  set.  {Crosses  sta^e.) 
Pardon  me,  but  this  is  Mr.  Claremont,  isn't  it?  Of 
course  you  don't  remember  me — you  meet  so  manv 
people,  but  we  were  together  at  Mrs.  Gordon-Rath- 
burne's  house  party.  No,  no,  please  don't  try  to 
apologize  for  not  recognizing  me.  My  feelings  aren't 
hurt  a  bit — you  can't  remember  every  one  and  we 
were  only  together  a  few  days.  I  am  Miss  Winthrop, 
the  Winthrops  of  Philadelphia,  you  know,  not  Bos- 
ton. (Laughs.)  Now,  if  I  had  been  dear  little 
Edith  Tremaine,  whom  you  kept  out  on  the  lake  in 
the  moonlight  while  you  recited  Shakespeare  to  her 
until  she  was  sick — not  from  the  Shakespeare,  you 
know,  but  from  taking  cold,  you  might  have  remem- 
bered me  better.  Oh,  don't  try  to  protest — of  course 
you  couldn't  help  admiring  her — such  a  dear  girl, 
very  pretty,  too,  and  looks  so  much  younger  than 
she  really  is.  And,  oh,  have  you  heard  that  she  is 
to  be  married?  A  western  millionaire — though  they 
say  he  is  quite  as  nice  as  if  he  were  really  poor  and 
ever  so  attractive.  They  say  she  has  done  very  well 
in  securing  him — though  after  her  years  of  practice 
she  ought  to  be  able  to  do  well  at  matrimonial  fishing. 
Oh,  no,  now  I  know  what  you  want  to  say — but  I*m 
not  going  to  give  3^ou  the  opportunity.  Vm  not 
jealous — why,  we're  the  best  of  friends  and  I'm  to 
be  one  of  the  bridesmaids. 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


69 


And  isn't  it  sad  about  dear  Mrs.  Gordon-Rath- 
burne?  Such  an  overwhelming-  sorrow  to  her.  Of 
course,  you  know  all  the  particulars  of  her  husband's 
death?  She  takes  it  so  hard — ^they  say  she  really 
loved  him — and  they  had  been  married  fifteen  years. 
Quite  romantic,  isn't  it?  And  they  claim  he  was  as 
devoted  to  her  as  when  they  were  first  married.  Oh, 
yes,  I  know  what  you  want  to  say,  Mr.  Clareniont. 
You  are  going-  to  say  that  lots  of  husbands  remain 
devoted  lovers,  but  I  shall  not  give  3'ou  the  oppor- 
tunity to  say  it,  because  you  know  it  isn't  so.  Oh. 
and  I  suppose  you  have  heard  about  poor  Bertie 
Rossiter.  You  remember  he  sang  tenor  so  beauti- 
fulty  in  our  ]\Iidnight  Moonlight  Musicals.  Lost 
every  thing  he  had  speculating  in  stocks.  But  the 
poor  boy  was  dreadfulh.-  brave  over  it,  and  what  do 
you  think?  He  got  a  position  in  a — oh,  a  something 
or  other  in  New  York  and  went  to  working  for 
wages.  Wasn't  that  lovely — just  like  a  novel?  Or 
like  a  bargain  store — reduced  from  $100,000  to  $1.98. 
And  the  young  lady  he  was  engaged  to  wouldn't  give 
him  up  because  of  his  poverty,  so  they  were  married 
and  are  doing  light  housekeeping  in  a  flat.  I  think 
it  is  just  lovely  for  them  to  be  so  courageous,  but 
I  am  sure  those  things  are  much  nicer  to  hear  about 
than  to  experience. 

What  a  delightful  time  we  had  at  j\Irs.  Gordon- 
Rathburne's  last  summer — such  a  select,  congenial 
company  and  such  a  charming  hostess !  And  don't 
you  remember  what  a  delightful  time  we  had  getting 
up  the  tableaux?  And  how  beautifully  you  played 
the  Judge  to  Edith  Tremaine's  Maud  Muller?  You 
quite  made  us  think  you  were  really  smitten  with 
dear  Edith—and  I  believe  you  were,  too,  only  men 
are  so  uncertain.  No,  no,  I  shall  not  let  you  deny 
it,  for  you  know  it  is  quite  true.  Do  you  know,  Mr. 
Claremont,  anyone  would  recognize  you  as  being 
an  actor — 3^our  face  is  so  soulfully  expressive  and 


70 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


your  manner  so  dramatic.  Oh,  no,  please  don't  try 
to  say  I  want  to  flatter  you — compliments  are  so 
commonplace,  especially  to  one  of  your  public  popu- 
larity. But  really  I  hardly  think  I  should  have  rec- 
ognized you  to-day  if  it  had  not  been  for  your 
Shakespearian  air. 

Do  you  know,  I'm  traveling  alone.  My  aunt, 
Mrs.  Winthrop  Merrill  was,  taken  ill — not  severely, 
of  course — just  before  we  were  to  start,  and  as  I 
am  to  meet  a  party  of  friends  this  evening,  I  came 
on  alone.  I  am  ever  so  glad  I  met  you,  because 
one  has  to  be  so  exclusive  when  traveling  that  it  is 
a  relief  to  meet  one  of  one's  own  set — even  though 
you  didn't  remember  me  at  all.  No,  no,  don't  try  to 
offer  an  apology — you  know  I  said  I  didn't  expect 
you,  a  man  of  renown,  to  remember  an  unconsequen- 
tial  being  like  mvself.  But  really,  Mr.  Claremont, 
do  you  know  you  haven't  said  a  word  about  your- 
self. I  suppose  you  are  still  with  the  same  com- 
pany? Do  tell  me  all  about  your  work — I  often  see 
your  successes  recounted  in  the  papers.  What?  Sir? 
Not  Mr.  Claremont?  Indeed,  sir,  may  I  ask  who 
you  are?  What?  A  traveling  salesman?  Why 
didn't  you  tell  me  so?  The  idea,  sir,  of  placing  a 
lady  in  such  a  precarious  situation.  You  tried  to 
explain?  Indeed,  you  must  have  tried  hard  not  to 
have  attracted  my  observation.  Why,  my  equilibrium 
is  completely  unbalanced,  my  equipoise  is  shattered, 
my  composure  is  destroyed!  Indeed,  I  am  com- 
pletely unnerved !  A  traveling  salesman  and  I  a 
Winthrop  of  Philadelphia! 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


71 


DIGESTING  THE  NEWSPAPER. 
Scene:    A  Jiome. 

Mrs.   Huckleberry   discovered  reading  the  news. 

Mrs.  Huckleberry.  La  me,  I  guess  fer  a  wonder 
I've  got  my  work  done  up  so's  I  can  set  down  a 
few  minutes  an'  read  the  newspaper.  I've  been 
awful  fond  of  readin'  ever  sence  I  was  a  girl — my 
folks  used  to  have  to  hide  books  to  keep  'em  away 
from  me.  But  it  does  seem  like  I  don't  git  much 
time  fer  books  an'  papers  now  days.  W'y,  land 
sakes,  I  do  believe  I  shed  two  teacupfuls  of  tears 
when  I  read  Dora  Thorn,  an'  when  I  read  Lena 
Rivers  I  cried  till  my  eyes  was  awful  red  an'  ma 
wanted  to  know  what  in  the  world  was  the  matter. 
Course  I  was  'shamed  to  tell  'er  I'd  bin  cryin'  over 
a  love  story,  so  I  said  I  had  the  nooralgy,  an'  if 
you'll  believe  it,  purty  soon  she  saw  the  docter  ridin' 
by  an'  she  called  'im  in  an'  asked  'im  what  to  do 
fer  my  nooralg}'.  My  land,  I  didn't  know  what  to 
do,  but  jes'  then  ma  had  to  run  out  doors  an'  shoo 
a  hen  outen  the  pansy  bed  an'  while  she  was  gone 
I  told  the  docter  the  truth — 'cause  I  knew  he 
wouldn't  tell — an'  he  said,  "W'y,  bless  your  heart, 
I  jes'  about  cried  over  that  book  myself  when  I 
read  it,"  an'  when  ma  come  in  he  told  'er  I  had  a 
little  touch  of  nooralgy  of  the  feelin's,  but  if  she'd 
give  me  some  catnip  tea  an'  put  me  to  bed  early 
I'd  be  all  right  the  next  day.  Oh,  la  yes,  I  used  to 
be  an  awful  hand  to  read. 

I  wonder  what's  in  the  paper  this  week.  {Begins 


72 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


to  look  it  over.)  Fer  pity  sakes!  It  tells  'bout  a 
prom'nent  lawyer  down  in  Kentucky  that  had  jes' 
gone  to  the  court  house  an'  was  shot  twict,  once  in 
the  rotundy  an'  once  in  the  corridor.  Now,  wasn't 
that  turrible?  I  don't  understand  these  hio^hfalutin' 
Latin  names  they've  ^ot  fer  the  parts  of  the  body, 
so  I  don't  know^  whether  the  rotundy  means  lights 
er  liver',  er  whether  the  corridor's  in  the  head  er 
the  feet,  but  if  that  poor  man  was  hit  in  both  the 
rotundy  an'  the  corridor  his  sufferin's  must  a  bin 
turrible.    I  don't  wonder  he  died. 

Wal,  wal,  here  it  tells  'bout  a  nuther  man  that's 
dead — an'  it  calls  'im  a  celebrated  antiquarian.  Now, 
if  it  jes'  don't  beat  all  how  many  newfang-led  kinds 
er  religion  they  is  now  days.  They  have  dreatful 
big-soundin'  names  fer  some  of  'em,  but  I  have  my 
doubts  'bout  their  bein'  real  sound  orthydox.  Anti- 
quarian !  Hum,  I  don't  care  'bout  style  in  my  reHg- 
ion — jes'  give  me  the  plain,  old-fashioned  Babtists 
with  their  free  use  of  water  an'  theology.  I  know 
'bout  the  Presbyterians  an'  the  Uniterians,  but  the 
Antiquarians  is  new  to  me.  Mebbe  they're  Christian 
all  right,  but  their  name  sounds  dreatful  kind  of 
heathenish. 

Humph !  I  declare  if  they  ain't  sent  off  an'  bought 
two  gondolas  to  put  on  the  lake  in  the  big  park  in 
New  York.  I've  heerd  tell  how  they  had  swans  an' 
pel'cans  an'  sech  like  floatin'  round  on  the  lakes  in 
them  big  parks  an'  I  s'pose  these  gondolas  are  some- 
thin'  real  han'some.  They  must  be  dreatful  fine 
'cause  it  says  they  paid  three  hunderd  an'  fifty  dollars 
fer  the  two.  Like  a  nuff  they  got  a  pair  an'  are 
goin'  to  let  'em  hatch  some  more,  an'  after  awhile 
they'll  have  a  lot  a  little  gondolars  floatin'  round — 
only  I  bet  they  won't  look  no  nicer'n  my  flock  of 
young  goslin's.  I  do  jes'  think  little  ducks  an'  gos- 
lin's  are  awful  cute — though  like  a  nuff  them  gon- 
dolars has  got  more  style.    I  wonder  if  they're  short 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


an'  fat  like  ducks,  er  g-ot  lono;  Itgs  like  storks  an' 
pel'cans,  er  if  they  look  like  swans.  I'd  like  real 
well  to  see  one,  specially  as  they  cost  so  .much. 

'Sly,  this  does  seem  gfood  to  set  down  an'  g-et  time 
to  enjoy  the  news.  I  g-uess  the}'  ain't  nuthin''  I  like 
better'n  readin'  less  it's  talkin' — an'  eatin'.  I  like 
to  take  my  time  readin'  the  paper  through,  too. 
Some  folks  skim  over  it  so  fast  they  don't  know 
what  they've  read,  but  I  don't  do  that.  I  digest  a 
newspaper  an'  know  what's  in  it  when  I  git  through. 

Oh,  my  sakes — here's  somethin'  dreatful.  (Reads 
from  paper.) 

'"A  terrible  catastrophe  occurred  at  Jonesvihe  yes- 
terday when  the  way  freight  struck  John  Burgess 
in  tlie  switching  yards,  instantly  loosing;  the  silver 
cord  and  breaking-  the  golden  bowl.'" 

Dear,  dear,  how  awful :  When  I  was  young  it 
was  the  Injuns  with  tommyhawks  that  was  alius 
killin'  oft  somebody,  an'  nowadays  it's  these  railroad 
track  injuns  that's  alius  doin'  somethin'  dreatful. 
\A'here'd  it  say  it  hit  'im?  {Looks  at  paper.)  Struck 
'im  in  the  switchin'  yards.  Wal,  I  snum  I  \A^hat 
part  of  the  humen  'natomy  is  the  switchin*  yards" 
Some  folks  like  to  put  the  switchin'  on  one  part  an' 
some  on  a  nuther.  ]\Iy  brother  Si  alius  v\-anted  ma 
to  switch  him  on  the  legs  an'  then  he'd  dance  so 
dreatful  that  ma'd  think  she  was  most  killin'  'im  an' 
he'd  git  off  easy.  In  the  switchin'  yards  I  Oh. 
pshaw  now,  what  a  g-oose  I  be !  It's  a  talkin'  'bout 
the  part  the  track  where  the  injun  was  switchin'  round 
when  it  hit  'im.  Xow,  lots  a  folks  wouldn't  a  thou.g^ht 
of  that,  but  I  believe  in  understandin'  what  I'm 
readin'.  I  like  to  digest  things.  Xow  what's  the 
rest?  (Reads:) 

■'■'Instantly  loosing  the  silver  cord  and  breaking 
the  golden  bowl." 

Whatever  in  the  world  do  you  s'pose  he  was  car- 
n-in'  a  silver  cord  an'  a  g^oid  bowl  for?^    W'y.  I 


74 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


never  saw  a  g^old  bowl  in  my  life.  He  must  a  bin 
awful  rich  to  have  sech  things — though  a  silver  cord 
ain't  very  expensive.  That  must  a  bin  his  watch 
chain,  but  I  don't  see  what  the  gold  bowl  was  for. 
I  wonder  if  it  killed  'im?    (Reads  again:) 

terrible  catastrophe  occurred  at  Jonesville  yes- 
terday when  the  way  freight  struck  John  Burgess  in 
the  switching  yards,  instantly  loosing  the  silver  cord 
and  breaking  the  golden  bowl." 

La,  me,  now  ain't  that  funny — it  don't  say  whether 
it  killed  'im  er  not?  I'd  like  to  know.  I  believe  in 
digestin'  a  newspaper. 

Pity  sakes !  Here  comes  Joshua  to  supper,  an'  I 
ain't  read  a  word  of  the  continued  story  'bout  "Lu- 
ella's  Misfortunes,  or  Wedded  to  a  Bandit."  Wal, 
I  can  git  time  fer  that  after  the  supper  work's  done 
up.  Duty  'fore  pleasure,  I  say,  whether  you're  mar- 
ried er  single,  but  specially  if  yer  married  an'  got 
a  hungry  husban'.  Now,  I  mus'n't  fergit  to  tell 
Joshua  'bout  all  these  things  I've  jes'  read — he  likes 
to  hear  me  tell  'em  better'n  to  read  'em  himself  'cause 
he  says  I  make  'em  so  kinder  plain  to  'im  when  I 
tell  'em  that  he  don't  have  to  studv  out  what  they 
mean. 


HUMOROUS  MOXOLOGUES. 


75 


EEKIXD  THE  PALMS. 

Scene:    A  secluded  retreat  at  a  fashionable  ball 
Enter  Dorothy  \'erxon  and  Roland  Douglas. 
She. 

Oh.  what  a  dehg-htful  hrtle  cozy  comer  here  be- 
hind the  palms — quite  an  ideal  place  to  sit  out  a 
dance. 

He. 

And  are  you  really  sure  you  are  willins^  to  ^ve 
up  this  waltz,  ^liss  Dorothy?  \\t  can  dance  if  you 
prefer. 

She. 

Xo,  indeed.  I  am  simply  Icn^ein^  for  a  few  min- 
utes' rest,  and  this  is  such  an  enchanting  little  spot — 
we  get  just  the  right  volume  of  music,  too.  How 
exquisite  those  tender  strains  are — just  sad  enough 
to  make  one  comfortably  melancholy.  I  do  believe 
I'm  the  least  bit  tired. 

He. 

You  have  had  a  busy  day,  I  suppose? 

She. 

Oh,  the  usual  quota,  at  least.  A  canter  over  the 
hills  this  mxoming,  luncheon  at  Madam^e  DuBarr\-'s 
— such  a  stupid  affair — an  afternoon  on  the  golf 
links — a  delightful  gam.e  with  Bertie  Leighton — tea 
with  the  Clayboumes  and  now —  this. 

He. 

And  }et  you  look  as  fresh  as  if  you  had  spent  the 
day  resting,  preoaring  for  this  strenuous  occasion. 


76 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


She. 

Oh,  it's  m}^  duty  to  look  fresh.  How  dreadful  it 
would  be  for  me,  at  the  tender  ag"e  of — oh,  3^ou 
needn't  think  I'm  really  g'oing-  to  tell  you  how  old 
T  am — to  look  worn  and  faded.  Women,  like  roses, 
are  cherished  for  their  beauty.  Who  is  comina:  this 
way?  Oh,  Qara  Golding-  and  Captain  Lawrence. 
I  do  hope  they  won't  stray  'in  here.  How  tremen- 
dously in  love  with  him  Clara  is,  poor  girl. 

He. 

And  why  do  you  call  her  "poor  girl,"  pray? 
She. 

Because  she  is  conducting  an  illy-planned  cam- 
paign. In  the  first  place,  she  is  too  much  in  love 
with  the  Captain,  and  in  the  second  she  shows  it 
far  too  plainly.    Now  when  I  fall  in  love — 

He. 

{In  great  surprise,) 
What?    Haven't  you  ever. 

She. 

Ever  what?  Fallen  in  love?  Of  course  not— 
have  you? 

He. 

Certainly — many  times,  but  always — with  the  same 


Oh~then  you  must  fall  out  occasionally  or— you 
couldn't  fall  in  again. 

He. 

Yes,  I  do.  The  fact  is  I'm  usually  out ;  it  is  only 
on  special  occasions,  when  I  can't  help  it,  that  I  am 
in. 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES.  77 

She. 
{Wonderingly.) 
Why,  how  funny,  Mr.  Douglas. 

He. 

Funny  ?  Not  at  all.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  very 
sad.    It  darkens  every  day  of  my  existence. 

She. 
{Slowly.) 

Really,  I  dot?.'t  believe  I  understand  you  at  all,  Mr. 
Douglas. 

He. 

Well,  you  see,  it  is  this  way — she  doesn't  love  me 
and  treats  me  with  such  indifference  that  at  times 
I  force  myself  to  hate  her. 

She. 

But,  hovv'  can  you  hate  her  when  you  are  in  love 
with  her? 

He. 

It  is  hard,  but  I  have  to  do  something.  I  don't 
want  to  commit  suicide. 

She. 

{Severely.) 
Why  not  hate  yourself? 

He 

Oh,  I  do — because  I'm  not  more  her  sort,  you 
know,  and  fascinating,  lovable  and  all  that. 

She. 

No,  I  wouldn't  hate  mvself — that  is  bad  for  the 
digestion ;  causes  dyspepsia — or  is  it  melancholia  ? 
No  matter,  they  are  the  same  thing. 

He, 
{Musingly.) 
I  might  expend  my  hate  on  them. 


78  HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


She 

Them?  Who? 

He. 

My  rivals ! 

She. 
(Seriously.) 
Are  they  worth  thinking  about? 

He. 

She  seems  to  think  they  are  worth  thinkmg  about, 
at  least. 

She. 

Perhaps  you  only  think  she  thinks — oh,  oh,  do  ^aze 
through  the  palms  and  see  fat  Miss  Tonn  waltzing 
with  that  tiny  Mr.  Siebert.  I  always  think,  "Oh, 
to  be  nothing,  nothing,"  when  I  see  him.  And 
watch  Fred  Dickerson  strolling  this  way  with  Hor- 
tense  OHver,  gazing  at  her  with  an  adoring  look 
when  he  doesn't  mean  a  thing  by  it.  Men  are  so 
queer. 

He. 

And  women  are  so — dear — at  least  a  certain  one 
is  to  me. 

She. 
( Confidentially. ) 
I  suppose  you  have  told  her  about — your  love? 

He. 

Why  should  a  man  proclaim  to  a  woman  that 
which  is  stamped  on  his  every  look  and  action? 

She. 

But  perhaps  she  is  near-sighted. 

He. 

I  wonder,  now,  if  that  is  why  she  sits  so  close  to 
my  chiefest  rival. 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


79 


She. 
(Consolingly.) 
But  maybe  he  isn't  really  your  rival  after  all. 
He. 

At  least  we  won't  be  rivals  after  to-morrow. 
She. 

Not  after  to-morrow?    Why  not? 

He. 

Because  he  will  have  a  clear  field.  I'm  g"oing-  on 
a  western  trip,  hunt  up  a  location  on  the  frontier 
and  go  to  work. 

She. 

(Quickly.) 

And  you  are  going  away?   Away  to  stay? 
He. 

To-morrow,  and  to  stay.  I  am  inflicting  myself  on 
YOU  now  to  say  goodbye.    I  start  early. 

She. 

Oh,  Jackson  Du  Boise  is  coming  this  way  scan- 
ning the  crowd  with  an  eagle  eye.  I  do  believe 
(looks  at  card),  yes,  this  is  his  dance. 

He. 

Of  course  I  must  not  detain  you.  How  selfish  of 
me  to  keep  you  in  seclusion. 

She. 
(Reproachfully.) 
Oh,  if  you  want  to  get  rid  of  me — but  what  of  your 
love  ?    I  have  read  that  he  who  fights  and  runs  away 
shall— 

He. 

Yes,  I  know.  I  shall  have  to  keep  fighting  against 
it,  but  at  least  I  shall  not  be  driven  to  despair  by 
her  presence.  I  am  not  going  away  to  forget  her 
— that  is  impossible.  Long  years  from  now  when 
you  are  happy  as  Mrs. — 


80  HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 

She. 
(Firmly.) 
I  shall  never,  never  marry ! 

He. 

(Aghast.) 

Never  what  ? 

She.  ^ 

Marry — it's  a  short  word,  but  it  means  a  whole  lot. 
He. 

And  why  not? 

She. 

Well— yes,  I  think  I  shall  tell  you.  I  told  you 
a  fib  a  while  ago.  I  have  loved,  yes,  really,  but  he 
— deserted  me — ^and 

He. 

(Weakly.) 

Why,  why,  Miss  Dorothy,  I  didn't  know — I  never 
guessed.  (Angrily.)  The  brute,  how  could  he? 
And  did  he — ^know  you  cared? 

She. 

I  never  told  him  so,  for  he  never  asked  me,  but 
he  must  have  known.  Isn't  life  queer?  How  many 
women  do  you  suppose  there  are  in  this  brilliant 
mass  of  gaiety  who  are  carrying  aching  hearts  be- 
neath their  laughter? 

He. 

I  am  so  sorry,  Miss  Dorothy,  to  know  that  3^ou 
have  suffered,  too.  I  hope  that — in  time  it  may  come 
out  all  right.    If  you — really  care — 

She 

Oh,  I  do,  truly. 

He. 

Now  if  I  were  a  woman — 
She. 

If  I  were  a  man — 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


SI 


He. 

Would  to  heaven  you  were !  If  you  were  a  man 
I  shouldn't  care  whom  you  married. 

She. 

If  I  were  a  man  I  should  not  love  a  woman — or 
pretend  to — and  not  tell  her  so.  I  would  in  like 
a  conqueror  and  win  her  in  spite  of  everything. 

He. 

(Incredulously.) 

Oh,  but— 

She. 

And  I  wouldn't  stand  back  for  a  rival — one  who 
never  really  existed,  you  know,  and — leave  him  the 
whole  field  when  she  didn't  care  for  him — not  a 
single  bit. 

He. 

Dorothy !  Why— 

She. 

And  I  should  never  desert  a  woman — when 
she  cared,  that  is.  No,  I'd  be  imperious  and  take 
her  in  my  arms  and  tell  her  she  must  love  me  and 
that  I  should  marry  her  anyway. 

He. 

(Brokenly.) 

Oh,  I  do^ — I  will — you  must  love  me.  (Takes  her 
in  his  arms.)  No,  darling,  no  one  can  see  us.  Tell 
me  I  may  try  to  win  your  love.  I  shall  not  give  you 
up,  dear  heart,  not  even  to  the  man  who  deserted 
you.    (Kisses  her.) 

She. 

( Laughing. ) 

Oh,  but  he  didn't  desert  me — he  isn't  going  to- 
morrow. Do  be  careful,  dearest,  you'll  rumple  my 
hair. 


82  HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES, 


A  LAPSE  OF  MEMORY. 

Scene:  Drawing-room. 

Discovered,  young  Mrs.  Marvel.  • 
Mrs.  Marvel. 
Oh,  dear,  I  think  life  is  just  horrid,  and  this  crazy 
old  world  is  horrid,  and  man  is  the  horridest  thin^ 
in  it.  (Puts  handkerchief  to  eyes.)  But  I  won't  cry 
— it  makes  me  look  so — so  washed-out.  Jack  says  I 
resemble  a  faded  piece  of  furniture  in  a  second-hand 
store  when  I  cry — oh,  Jack  is  so  mean!  I  can't  bear 
him !  And  to  think  that  when  he's  the  only  man  in 
the  world  I  can't  endure  he's  the  only  one  I'm  mar- 
ried to.  (Puts  handkerchief  to  eyes.)  But  I  won't 
cry — when  a  woman  is  in  trouble  she  should  pre- 
serve her  beauty  as  sort  of  a — a  prop.  I'll  just  look 
pensive  instead.  (Throws  herself  into  a  chair  in 
graceful  attitude  of  despair.)  1  wonder  if  this  style 
of  sorrowful  posture  becomes  me — or  is  this  more 
fetching?  (Assumes  another  pensive  attitude.)  I 
must  practice  on  it  so  that  when  the  affair  becomes 
public  and  people  call  to  offer  sympathy  I  shall  make 
a  sad  impression.  I  wonder  if  this  wouldn't  be  more 
effective?  (Strikes  attitude  of  extreme  sorrow.) 
Of  course  my  attitude  of  despair  won't  affect  Jack 
any — he's  one  of  those  unemotional  machines  that's 
not  moved  by  soulful  things.  Why,  the  other  day 
when  he  said  he  was  too  busy  to  go  to  the  musicale 
with  me  I  sat  down  in  the  loveliest  heart-broken 
position,  like  this  (suits  action  to  word),  and  looked 
at  him  like  this  (suits  action  to  word),  enough  to 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES.  83 

melt  the  feelings  of  a  cement  sidewalk — but  he  only 
said  {sobs),  he  said,  ''Great  Scott,  Evelyn,  what 
you  acting  that  way  for?  Got  the  stomach  ache? 
Ain't  going  to  have  appendicitis  are  you?"  Oh,  I 
just  think  that  when  a  man's  feelins^s  are  dead  his 
whole  anatomy  ought  to  die — so  there!  {Knock  is 
heard.)  Come  in.  (Enter  Maggie,  the  cook.)  Oh, 
is  it  you,  Maggie?    What  do  you  want? 

Maggie. 

An'  shure,  mum,  Oi  do  be  wantin'  to  know  what 
ye'll  be  wishin'  me  to  cook?  What  do  ye  be  wantin' 
to  hev  on  yer  signboard  fer  dinner,  mum? 

Mrs.  Marvel. 
On  my  signboard?     Dear  me,  Maggie,  do  you 
mean  on  the  menu?    You  must  endeavor  to  civilize 
yourself,  Maggie. 

Maggie. 

All  right,  mum,  we'll  call  it  a  me-an'-you,  if  ye 
wishes,  fer  shure  it's  me  an'  you  that's  a  doin'  this 
plannin'.  An'  how'll  ye  want  the  peraties  cooked 
to-day?  Would  ye  be  after  havin'  'em  baked  er  biled 
with  their  hides  on? 

Mrs.  Marvel. 
Oh,  Maggie,  don't  say  hides — why,  it  sounds  just 
like  old   boots.     Say   skins,   or   boiled   with  their 
jackets  on. 

Maggie. 

Jackets  er  pants,  mum.,  it's  all  the  same  to  me, 
(Laughs.)  Jest  say  how  you  v»^ants  'em.  Mebbe 
ye'll  like  'em  baked? 

Mrs.  Marvel. 
No,  we  won't  have  them  baked.  (Aside.)  Jack 
likes  them  baked  better  than  any  other  way,  and  I 
sha'n't  please  him  by  humoring  his  appetite.  (To 
Maggie.)  Tell  me,  Maggie,  do  you  know  of  some 
real  horrid  way  to  cook  potatoes? 


84 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


Maggie. 
(  Thinks. ) 

Shure,  now,  mum,  I  think  about  the  worst  Oi 
knows  of  is  to  let  'em  bile  dry  an'  scorch  onto  the 
bottom  of  the  kittle. 

Mrs.  Marvel. 
Oh,  that's  the  very  thing!  (Aside.)  I'm  not 
going  to  be  the  only  one  to  sui¥er.  If  Jack's  feelings 
can't  be  hurt  I'll  punish  him  through  his  appetite.  I 
believe  he's  got  two  stomachs  and  no  heart,  anyway. 
Oh,  dear,  maybe  he's  like  a  camel  and  has  seven 
stomachs — one  for  every  day  in  the  week.  (To 
Maggie.)  Now,  Maggie,  you  cook  them  just  that 
way  and  make  them  as  dreadful  as  you  can. 

Maggie. 

The  saints  presarve  us,  mum !  What'll  poor 
Misther  Jack  say  to  that — an'  him  so  fond  of  peraties, 
mum  ? 

Meis.  Marvel. 

Never  mind  Mr.  Jack — cook  them  as  I  say.  Then 
you  can  have  beefsteak,  tomatoes  (aside) — Jack 
hates  tomatoes — and  tapioca  pudding.  You  will  find 
out  when  you  are  married,  Maggie,  that  husbands 
need  discipline. 

Maggie. 
(Aside.) 

Discapline,  is  it?  Divil  a  bit  do  Oi  know  what 
that  manes — Oi  s'pose  it's  a  newfangled  name  fer 
scorched  peraties,  but  Oi  knows  Oi'll  not  be  afther 
feedin'  'em  to  Dinnis  Maginnis,  bliss  his  soul,  afther 
we're  tied  up — bliss  the  happy  day.  (To  Mrs. 
Marvel.)  All  right,  mum,  Oi'll  do  me  best  to  spile 
the  peraties.    Oi  guess  that's  all,  mum.  (Exit.) 


HUMOROUS  MOXOLOGUES. 


85 


Z\Ir5,  ^Iarvel. 

Oh.  dearl  '  JValks  back  and  forth.)  I  hope  ^lag- 
gie  will  have  just  a  horribly  dreadful  dinner — Tack 
always  comes  home  so  hungry.  AMiy  should  a 
woman  be  bothered  with  a  husband  if  there  isn't  som.e 
satisfaction  in  living  with  him.  and  what  satisfaction 
is  there  in  a  husband  who  neglects  his  wife?  And 
when  I  tell  Tack  he  neglects  me  he  just  laughs. 
Laughs !  Laughs  I  To  think  that  this  is  ni}-  birth- 
day, and  he  forgot  all  about  it.  ]\Iy  birthday  I  Such 
an  important  day— why.  if  it  hadn't  been  for  my 
birthday  T'd  never  been  bom — I  m.ean— well,  anyway, 
it's  just  shameful  in  Tack  to  forget  it.  AMiy.  this 
morning  I  waited  and  waited  for  him  to  giA"e  me  a 
present,  and  finally  I  said,  '''AA'hat  day  is  this,  Dovie?"'' 
thinking  to  punch  his  memory  a  bit.  and  he  said, 
*'\A'hy,  Wednesday,  of  course.  Can't  you  remember 
a  little  thing  like  that'"  "Yes.  but  what  special  day 
is  it?"'  I  asked,  and  he  said,  ''"Gracious,  that's  so — 
it's  the  day  for  the  board  m.eeting  of  the  X  Y  Cor- 
poration. Good  thing  you  reminded  me  of  it."  The 
ideal  Board  meeting!  Board  meeting  I  If  it  was  a 
whole  lum/ber-yard  meeting  it  wouldn't  be  as  im- 
portant as  m.y  birtlidayl  And  my  husband  forgot  it. 
iPiifs  liaiidkerchief  to  eyes  and  sobs.  )  But  I  sham't 
cry — I'll — I'll  get  a  divorce.  Why.  I  always  give 
him  presents.  His  last  birthday  I  gave  him  the 
lovely  new  rug  for  the  reception  hall— but  I  wish  I 
had  only  given  him  half  a  dozen  bone  collar-buttons 
at  five  cents  a  dozen.  The  idea  of  his  forgetting  m.y 
birthdav.  Of  course,  he  doesn't  love  me  any  more. 
When  I  m.arried  I  supposed  that 

~\Ien  mav  come  and  men  m.ay  go, 
But  love  goes  on  forever. 
Now.  hovrever,  I  know  that 

Husbands  com.e.  and  husbands  go, 
But  Love's  a  fickle  rover. 


86 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


Oh,  why  did  I  marry?  Why  didn't  I  be  a — a 
superintendent  of  an  orphans'  home  or  a  deaconess, 
or  do  rescue  work  in  the  slums,  or  something  noble? 
And  to  think  of  the  way  Jack  used  to  make  love  to 
me  before  we  were  married.  What  did  I  do  with 
that  old  letter  I  came  across  the  other  day? 
{Thinks.)  Oh,  yes,  I  put  it  in  my  scrapbook.  {Gets 
letter  and  looks  it  over.)  L  really  wonder  if  he 
would  recognize  this  as  his  sentiments  of  courting 
days.  {Listens.)  I  believe  Jack  is  coming  now. 
I'll  give  him  a  dose  of  this  effusion.  {Fixes  letter  in 
hook,  so  it  can  he  read  without  Jack's  seeing  it.) 

Jack. 
{Entering.) 

Hello!  Everything  been  all  right  to-day?  Dinner 
most  ready?    I'm  hungry  as  an  ostrich. 

Mrs.  Marvel. 
{Coldly.). 

I  suppose  that  means  you  can  eat  nails  and  cobs 
and  pebbles? 

Jack. 

I  may  be  able  to  stand  the  pebbles  for  dessert  if  I 
can  have  a  good  fill  of  Maggie's  baked  ''peraties" 
first.    Dinner  most  ready? 

Mrs.  Marvel. 
Oh,  I  guess  not  yet.    Jack,  I  want  to  ask  you 
something.    Do  you  love  me  any  longer? 

Jack. 

Any  longer  than  what?  You  are  five  feet  nine,  I 
believe.  Of  course,  I  don't  love  you  any  longer  than 
that — if  I  did  it  wouldn't  be  you  I  was  loving. 
{Laughs.) 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


87 


^Irs.  Marvel. 

(Aside.) 

Oh,  how  heartlessly  he  evades  my  question.  (To 
Jack.)    Jack,  I  want  to  know.    Do  you  love  me? 

Jack. 

Great  heavens,  Evelyn,  what  do  you  suppose  I  am 
pa\-ing  your  dressmaker  bills,  your  milliner  bills, 
theater  bills,  doctor  and  dentist  bills,  to  say  nothing 
of  buying  you  flowers,  candy  and  a  beaver  coat  for,  if 
it  isn't  for  love?  Think  I'm  doing  it  just  for  ammse- 
ment?  (Laughs.) 

^Irs.  ^Iarvel. 

Well,  I  have  something  here  I  want  to  read  you. 
I  wonder  if  you  ever  felt  as  the  man  did  who  wrote 
this.  (Reads:) 

"Light  of  my  Soul :  Like  the  ceaseless,  surging 
breakers  of  the  billowy  ocean,  my  heart  throbs  Avith 
love  and  longing  for  you.  When  I  am  separated 
from  you  I  am  like  the  traveler  lost  on  the  vast 
stretches  of  desolate  Sahara,  longing  for  the  charms 
of  the  beautiful  oasis.    I  am  as — " 

Jack. 

See  here,  Evelyn,  don't  you  ever  believe  a  man 
wrote  that  driveling  gibberish.  Some  old  maid  lec- 
turer of  woman's  rights  did  it. 

}\IR5.  ^L^rvel. 
(Reading.) 

"The  sun  may  shine,  the  silver  moon  shed  her 
sheeny  radiance  upon  the  earth,  the  myriad  stars 
twinkle  like  scintillating  diamonds  in  the  arched 
dome  of  heaven,  but  for  me  there  is  no  brightness 
save  in  the  light  of  thy  glorious  presence." 

Jack. 

And  you  think  a  man  wrote  that  I  (LaiigJis  heart- 
ily.)   \Vhy,  a  fellow  would  be  ashamed  to  look  at 


88 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


himself  in  the  mirror  long  enough  to  get  on  his 
necktie  if  he  were  guilty  of  such  sentimentality. 
Sheeny  radiance  and  scintillating  diamonds !  (Laughs 
as  before.)  I'll  grant  that  love  makes  men — er — 
inclined — er — to  foolishness,  but  show  me  the  man 
who  would  go  in  as  steep  as  that.  (Points  to  book 
from  which  Mrs.  Marvel  is  reading.) 

Mrs.  Marvel. 
(Aside.) 

Oh,  I'll  show  him  to  you  soon.  Sir  Scornful. 
(Sadly.)  No,  he  hasn't  a  spark  of  love  for  me  left 
in  his  fickle  body.  I  shall  have  to  get  a  divorce. 
(To  Jack.)  Just  one  more  sentence,  dear — it  is  so 
beautiful.  (Reads:) 

"Could  my  love  take  solid  form,  the  loftiest 
pyramids  would  be  as  a  grain  of  sand  compared  to 
it,  and  when  you  are  mine  it  shall  be  my  constant 
endeavor  to — " 

Jack. 

Shades  of  Caesar,  Evelyn,  stop  it!  Why  are  you 
dosing  me  with  this  crazy  ranting  of  a  weak-minded 
maniac — and  me  with  an  empty  stomach,  too.  You 
might  at  least  have  waited  until  I'd  had  dinner. 

Mrs.  Marvel. 
A  man  did  write  this — a  wicked  man  who  has 
turned  out  to  be — 

Jack. 

No  wonder  he  turned  out  bad  after  such  an  effort 
as  that.  I  used  to  write  you  love  letters  sometimes, 
but  nothing  along  this  style  of  literature. 

Mrs.  Marvel. 
(Approaching  him  and  waving  the  paper  tragically.) 

You  better  look  at  this,  Mr.  John  Marvel!  You 
better  look — you  wrote  it  yourself — this  driveling 
gibberish  of  an  old  maid,  this  crazy  ranting  of  a 
weak-minded — 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES.  89 
Jack. 

{Looking  at  letter  in  surprise.) 
Er — why — oh,  come  now   (laughs  sheepishly) — I 
never — I  didn't — - 

Mrs.  2\Iarvel. 
You  did !    You  wrote  that  when  I  was  at  Lake 
George. 

Jack. 

— er  i  laughs  in  great  confusion).  Well — 
why,  }-ou  had  me  pretty  well  dazed,  didn't  you. 
dearie  ?    I — er — 

}\Irs.  Marvel, 
And  now,  after  decoying  me  with  such  bait  as 
that  (points  to  letter)  and  leading  me  into  matri- 
monial unhappiness,  now  you  great,  unemotional, 
soulless  man,  you  don't  even  remember  that  this  is 
my  birthday.  You  don't  love  me  (sobs)  and  I'm 
going  to  get  a  di — (sobs)  a  di — 

Jack. 

You'll  have  to  get  a  dye  and  color  your  pretty 
eyes  over  if  you  weep  all  the  blue  out  of  them.. 
(Laughs.)  Come,  come  now,  my  darling.  (At- 
tempts to  put  his  arm  about  her.) 

Mrs.  Marvel. 
(Angrily.) 

I  shall  get  a  divorce.  A  divorce,  sir,  immediately ' 
Jack. 

A  divorce!  (Laughs.)  Oh,  come  now.  (Laughs.) 
A  divorce — why,  my  dear!  (Laughs.) 

jNIrs.  Marvel. 
(In  loud,  angry  tone,  stamping  her  foot.) 
A  divorce,  immediately! 


90 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES, 


Jack. 

My  love,  you  are  wearing  out  a  five-dollar  pair  of 
shoes  on  a  fifty-dollar  rug — do  be  careful — though 
you're  great  as  a  tragedy  queen.  {Laughs.)  But, 
by  the  way,  here  is  a  little — er — birthday  gift.  It 
wasn't  ready  when  I  stopped  for  it  last  night,  so  I 
am  a  little  late  with  it,  but  I  hope  you'll  like  it. 
(Hands  her  a  box.) 

Mrs.  Marvel. 

(Opening  box.) 
A  diamond  sunburst !  Oh,  you  sweet  darling — 
you  great,  dear,  beautiful  old  honey !  Isn't  it  lovely  ? 
Won't  it  look  sweet  on  me?  (Holds  it  against  her 
gown.)  I  knew  you  wouldn't  forget  my  birthday — 
you're  just  the  loveliest  man  in  all  this  blessed  old 
world. 


HUMOROUS  MOXOLOGUES. 


9i 


ASSISTIXG  UNCLE  JOE. 
Scene:    A  railn-ay  train. 

Discovered,  Young  ^.Iaster  Teddy,  taking  a  trip, 
Teddy. 

Gee,  it's  good  in  Uncle  Joe  to  take  me  on  the  cars 
with  "im.  We're  goin'  to  Bameyville  to  visit 
gran'ma.  I  jes"  love  to  ride  on  the  cars — it  makes 
VQU  feel  all  jiggly  inside  an'  gits  you  awful  hungry. 
Gran'ma  has  jes'  heaps  of  good  stuff  to  eat — \v'y, 
she  has  &ech  lots  'at  they  don't  ever  git  'em  all  et  up 
an'  they's  alius  some  on  the  buttery  shelfs  fer  little 
boys  to  lunch  on.    Yes-sir-ee  I 

Uncle  Joe,  he's  avrful  good  an'  got  lots  er  money 
an'  things — ma  says  all  'e  lacks  is  a  wife,  but  'e 
don't  faver  matermony.  He  says  \\'immin's  like 
flowers — 'eys  nicest  'fore  you  pick  'em.  But  you 
bet  I'm  goin*  to  git  married  w'en  T'm  big,  an'  w'en 
my  wife  wants  money  fer  a  new  silk  pettycoat  all 
trimmed  with  ruffles,  I'll  tell  'e-r  jes'  like  pa  does  ma, 
"You  hain't  sewed  them  buttons  back  on  my  shirt, 
an'  you  hain't  darnt  my  socks,  ner  sewed  up  'at  rip 
in  my  pants,  an'  you  hain't  ernt  no  silk  pettycoat." 

An"  then  mxy  wife'll  git  'er  arms  roun'  my  neck  an' 
tease  an'  I'll  tell  'er  not  to  cry  on  my  clean  shirt 
front,  'cawse  the  lawnderv-  bill  ain't  paid  yit,  an' 
bimeby  I'll  give  'er  the  money  an'  say  it's  the  las' 
damt  cent  I  got,  an'  she'll  kiss  me  an'  say  she's  awful 
glad  she  married  me  'stead  er  all  the  res'  that  wanted 
'er.  Yes-sir-ee,  you  bet  I'll  git  miarried !  Pa  says 
ma  leads  him  a  mern,-  chase,  an'  ma  lafts  an'  says, 


n  '       HUMOROUS  MONOLOGJynS. 


"W'y,  Dovie,  you  wouldn't  hev  no  fun  in  life  if  it 
wasn't  fer  me/' 

Gee — these  cars  is  goin'  awful  fast — I  bet  they're 
runnin'  aw^ay — but  I  ain't  skeert.  I  wouldn't — be 
skeert — if  they  run — plumb  off  en  the  track — only  I 
don't  want  ter  git  hurt. 

Uncle  Joe,  he's  in  the  smokin'  car,  an'  'e  sed  if  I's 
lonesum  I  could  go  an'  talk  to  that  little  girl  over 
there.  (Points.)  Huh,  she's  got  freckles  an'  looks 
like  she's  'fraid  er  boys.  Aw,  I  don't  like  girls — 
all  they's  good  fer's  to  make  wifes  of  w'en  they's 
big.  But  it's  lots  a  fun  to  tease  'em.  (Laughs.) 
At  school  I  do  this  to  the  girls  (makes  up  dreadful 
face),  an'  the  other  day  Bessie  Smith  laffed  so  the 
teacher  made  'er  stay  after  school.  My,  she  was  mad 
at  me.  (Laughs.) 

Oh,  gee,  w'at  a  awful  fat  man  a  sittin'  over  there ! 
(Giggles.)  He  looks  jes'  like  'e'd  swallered  a  bal- 
loon. I  bet  sister  Nell  'u'd  like  to  hev  'im  sit  on  'er 
botterny  spec'men.s  an'  press  'em.  Ma  says  if  I  eat 
lots  a  potatoes  it'll  make  me  big,  an'  I  bet  he's  et 
'bout  a  bushel  to  a  time. 

Oh — I  g'ess — I  better  wipe  my  nose.  (Gets  out 
handkerchief  and  ruhs  his  nose  straight  up  several 
times.)  Ma  telled  me  sure  not  to  forgit  to  wipe  my 
nose.  (Rubs  it  again.)  Don't  feel  like  they's  nothin' 
in  it  to  wipe,  but  ma  sed  if  I  didn't  mind  all  she  sed 
she'd  write  to  gran'ma  not  to  give  me  any  pie, 
'cawse  it  made  me  sick.  Las'  time  I  's  there  gran'ma 
says,  "Do  you  want  apple  er  mince  pie,  Teddy?" 
An'  I  sed,  ''I  don't  like  apple  pie  very  good,  so  I'll 
only  take  one  piece  of  'at,  but  I'd  like  two  pieces  of 
mince,"  an'  gran'pa  he  laffed  an'  sed,  "You  jes'  give 
'im  all  the  pie  'e  wants,  Sary." 

An'  well,  sir,  thet  night  I  drempt  they's  a  great, 
awful  rhyneocerous  a  dancin'  on  me  an'  I  waked  up. 
Oh,  I  had  the  terrubelist  hurt  in  my  stummick,  an'  I 
called,  "Gran' — ma,  oh,  gran' — ma-a-a,"  an'  she  come 


HUMOROUS  MOXOLOGUES 


93 


hurryin'  in  an'  sa^.'s.  •''What's  the  matter,  dearie? 
You  skeered  to  sleep  alone""  an'  I  sed.  '"'Xo-o.  I— 
ain't — skeered — but  I'm — I'm  awful — sick.  The3''s 
pains — big's  a  stovepipe  eatin"  up — my  stummick." 
(Hands  on  stomach  and  suits  actions  to  words.)  An" 
gran'mia  give  m^e  medycine  an'  rubbed  my  stummick 
an'  put  boilin'  cloths  on  it  an'  kissed  me  lots  an' 
tended  me  awful  good. 

Z\Iy.  that's  a  nice  young  lady  sittin'  over  there. 
She  looks  like  she'd  be  awful  good  to  little  boys. 
Her  hair  is  'most  red  an'  ''er  nose  is  kind  of  snubby, 
but  she's  pretty,  anyhow.  I  bet  she'd  make  a  nice 
Avife  fer  Uncle  Tee.  ]\Ia  says  "e  ought  to  git  some- 
body stylish,  an'  she's  sure  swell.  I  tell  you,  she 
ain't  got  on  no  bargain  store  clothes. 

Yes-sir-ee,  I  bet  she's  jes"  the  one  fer  Uncle  Joe. 
I  wish  they'd  git  'quainted.  Xow,  if  they'd  jes'  be  a 
wreck  an'  folks  awful  skeered — only  nobody  hurt — 
an'  Uncle  Toe  "u'd  pull  'er  out  the  winder  an'  save  'er 
life  an'  fall  in  love  an'  say.  like  they  do  in  the 
theater : 

■'"Oh.  my  lovely  chrome. 
Let  me  be  your  Rom'o." 
an'  she'd  cry  an"  say : 

"Oh,  you  have  saved  my  life 
An'  I  will  be  your  wife." 
an'  I'd  say.  like  pa  did  vr'en  sister  Grace  got  mar- 
ried, "'God  bless  you  both.'' 

I  wonder  if — oh.  here  comes  the  candy  man. 
Yep,  you  bet.  I  want  some  chocolates.  Um.-hum, 
ten  cents  worth.  Course  I  got  the  money  to  pay, 
you  skinflint  ol'  guy.  Here,  sro  on  now.  Aw.  don't 
you  give  me  no  sass  er  I'll  have  my  Uncle  Toe  git 
you  put  offen  the  train. 

Xow— yes-sir-ee.  I'm  goin'  to  go  sit  with  that 
nice  lady  an'  give  'er  some  candy  an'  tell  'er  'bout 
Uncle  Joe.  an'  mebbe  I  can  git  'em  'quainted.  My. 
wouldn't  m.a  be  proud  of  me  if  I  j^elpt  git  a  nice 


94 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


wife  fer  uncle?  {Fixes  his  hair,  wipes  his  nose, 
spits  on  his  handkerchief  and  rubs  his  hands,  straight- 
ens  his  tie,  brushes  off  his  clothes  with  his  handker- 
chief and  goes  across  the  aisle.  To  the  Young 
Lady.)  A-hem!  Don't  you  want  some  my  candy? 
Mebbe  it  ain't  very  good!  I  g'ess  I'll  sit  with  you 
a  little  while. 

Young  Lady. 
Why,  yes,  do.    Yes,  thank  you,  I'll  take  a  little 
candy.    I  like  little  boys.    Are  you  going  very  far? 

Teddy. 

Um-hum,  way  up  to  Barneyville  to  visit  gran'ma. 
Uncle  Joe's  takin'  me.  Oh,  Uncle  Joe's  awful  nice.  He 
can  make  hot  biskits,  an'  whistles,  an'  play  ball  with 
me,  an'  tell  stories_,  an' — an'  ev'rything.  He  ain't  so 
good  lookin'  as  my  pa,  but  oh,  he's  awful  good. 
W'y,  I  bet  he's  gooder'n  most  ministers.  Ma  says 
she  bets  he'd  make  'bout  the  best  husban'  in  the 
world. 

Young  Lady. 
Oh,  isn't  your  uncle  married?    That  is  too  bad,  if 
he  is  so  lovely.    Doesn't  he  like  ladies? 

Teddy. 

Um-hum,  he  likes  'em,  only  he's — bashful.  {Aside.) 
I  had  to  tell  'er  that,  so's  she  won't  think  he  don't 
want  'er.  You  have  to  be  awful  keerful  w'en  you're 
makin'  matches,  ma  says.  {To  Young  Lady.) 
Uncle  Joe's  got  lots  er  money  an'  a  stone  house,  an' 
— false  teeth — an' — you  bet  'e  ain't  bald,  neither. 

Young  Lady. 
I'm  sure  he  must  be  quite  wonderful.    Nice  uncles 
are  a  fine  thing  for  little  boys  to  have. 

Teddy. 

Um-hum,  w'en  I  fell  offen  the  top  the  porch  an' 
busted  a  hole  in  my  head  he  held  me  a  awful  long 


HUMOROUS  MOXOLOGUES:  95 

time  an'  rocked  me  an'  singed  like  this.  ( Sings  in 
mournful  tone  and  little  tune:) 

"'Dear  Teddy  fell  off  inter  the  dirt, 
An'  broke  his  head  an'  tore  his  shirt.     (Only  it 
was   my   pants   I   tore,   but  uncle   couldn't  rhyme 
pants.) 

Now  be  g-ood  an'  do  not  holler 
An'  uncle'll  give  you  a  great  big"  dollar." 
Ma  says  Uncle  Joe  can't  sing  good,  but  I  think  'e 
sings  lovely.    I  wish  he'd  git  married. 

YouxG  Lady. 
Well,  why  don't  you  pick  out  someone  for  him. 
and  be  a  little  matchmaker? 

Teddy. 

W'y,  I  have  picked  out  somebody.  She's  awful 
nice. 

YouxG  Lady. 
Indeed!    And  doesn't  your  uncle  favor  her? 

Teddy. 

Um-hum — I  think  he  will  when  he  knows.  I  jes' 
picked  'er  out  a  little  while  ago.    It's  you. 

YouxG  Lady. 
Oh,  my  sakes  !    You  dear  little  fellow !    What  is 
your  uncle's  name? 

Teddy. 

W'y,  Uncle  Joseph  Edward  Barlow. 

YouxG  Lady. 
{Great  surprise.) 
Joe  Barlow  I    Oh.  dear — yes,  he  is  nice.    I  know 
him  quite  well. 

Teddy. 

An'  does  'e  know  you,  too? 


96 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


Young  Lady. 
Why,  yes,  of  course,  if  he  hasn't  forgotten  me. 

Teddy. 

Oh,  here's  uncle  now.  {Calls.)  Uncle  Joe,  come 
here.  Oh,  uncle,  here's  a  awful  nice  lady  that  knows 
you,  an'  I  jes'  love  'er,  an'  I've  picked — 

Young  Lady. 
{Hastily.) 

Oh,  how  do  you  do,  Mr.  Barlow?  Your  dear  lit- 
tle nephew  and  I  have  been  getting  acquainted. 

Teddy. 

Um-hum,  an'  I  think  she'd  make  a  awful  nice 
aunt,  an' — 

Uncle  Joe. 
{Very  hastily.) 
Ted,  old  fellow,  here's  a  dollar  if  you'll  go  and  sit 
in  that  seat  awhile,  so  Miss  Winslow  and  I  can  visit. 

Teddy. 

You  bet!  {Goes  across  aisle  and  sits.)  Gee,  you 
bet  he's  talkin'  to  'er  jes'  like  ev'rything.  My,  I 
wisht  he'd  put  his  arm  roun'  'er  like  they  did  at  the 
theater,  er  hold  'er  hand.  Oh,  I  bet  I'm  a  match- 
maker. 'Er  face's  awful  red  an'  I  bet  uncle's  sayin'* 
"Oh,  my  lovely  chromo, 
Lemme  be  your  Rom*o." 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


97 


AT  EIGHT  O'CLOCK. 

Scene  I. 
Scene:  On  the  golf  links. 

Discovered,  Edith  Balfour  and  Claude  Marshall 
in  the  progress  of  a  game. 

She. 

{In  surprise.) 
Claude  Marshall,  I  do  believe  you're  proposing  to 
me. 

He. 

{Firmly.) 

Yes,  my  dear,  I  am.    That  is,  I  am  trying  to. 
She. 

What  ?    Again  ? 

He. 

{Humbly.) 
It  only  makes  the  third  time. 

She. 
{In  annoyance.) 
Yes,  the  third  time  in  less  than  a  year.    The  idea 
of  your  decoying  me  out  here,  away  from  the  others, 
just  to  ask  me  to  marry  you,  when  you  know  that 
I  Vv^on't. 

He. 

But  you  know%  Edith,  that — 


98  HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 

She. 

Why  don't  you  think  of  the  game?  You  have 
even  been  playing  worse  than  usual  to-day. 

He. 

{Ruefully.) 

Yes,  I  know  I'm  a  duffer  at  golf,  but  if  you  marry 
me,  Edith,  I — 

She. 

{Scornfully.) 

The  idea  of  marrying  a  man  I  can  beat  three  up. 

He. 

(  Warmly. ) 

Oh,  if  all  you  want  in  a  husband  is  a  fellow  who 
can  go  round  the  game  like  a  racehorse  and  come 
out  a  perspiring  victor,  you  better  marry  that  fat 
Jones, 

She. 

{Sweetly.) 

Do  you  think  so?  I  have  thought  of  it,  but  he 
puffs  so  and  gets  red  in  the  face  and  has  such  a 
dreadful  way  of  mopping  his  face  and  saying,  "pouf." 

He. 

{Suspiciously.) 
Has  that  idiot  been  making  love  to  you? 

She. 

Idiot?   Why,  he  is  the  best  player  in  the  club. 
He. 

Edith,  if  you  allow  him  to  make  love  to  you  I'll — 
I'll  punch  him. 

She. 

{Stiffly.) 

I  think  we  had  better  start  back  now.  Do  see  if 
you  can't  brace  up  on  your  playing. 


HUMOROUS  MOXOLOGUES. 


99 


He. 

But  you  haven't  answered  me  yet. 

She. 

Answered  you  what?  Come  on  to  the  tee.  Xow 
watch  me  make  a  good  drive.  Oh,  I  topped  some — 
never  mind.  A  good  brassie-stroke  will  put  me  well 
to  the  fore. 

He. 

But  about  marrying  me,  Edith?  I'm  sort  of  a 
duller  at  making  love  as  well  as  at  golf,  but  you 
know  how  much  I  care  for  you.  I  have  little  to 
otter  you  besides  a  clean  life  and  a  true  heart,  but 
I'm  climbing  in  my  profession,  dear,  if  I  can't  play 
golf,  and  perhaps  some  day — • 

She. 

[Looking  i'fifoitly  at  Jiim.) 
Claude,  you  are  quite,  quite  handsome,  but  I'm  not 
contemplating  putting  on  the  yoke  of  double  blessed- 
ness.   Xow,  take  a  long,  clean  stroke  and  get  well 
up  toward  the  tenth  hole. 

He. 

Very  well.  Where's  my  stick  ?  Er,  club,  I  mean, 
though  it  really  is  a  stick.  After  all  the  years  I  have 
loved  you — 

She. 

(LangJihig.) 

Oh,  many,  many  years.  It  is  something  over  two 
since  we  first  met= 

He. 

(Stigiy.) 

I  measure  time  by  heart  throbs.  There,  that  was  a 
good  drive,  wasn't  it?  Even  if  I'm  not  puffy  Jones. 
Xow,  in  regard  to  our  aff'air,  I  have  a  proposition  to 
make. 


100  HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


She. 

{Quickly.) 

So  have  I.  Let's  see  if  we  can't  each  reach  the 
green  in  three.  Now  see  me  sustain  my  reputation 
for  good  putting. 

He. 

{Following  her.) 
I  can  make  love  and  play  golf  at  the  same — 

She. 
{Scornfully.) 
Attempt  to  play  it,  you  mean. 

He. 

Whereas  you  seem  to  be  unable  to  divide  your  at- 
tention. I  am  going  to  call  this  evening  at  eight  for 
your  answer. 

She. 

Why,  I  did  answer !  I  said  no !  Now  put  your 
mind  on  your  drives  and  science  in  your  strokes  and 
let's  not  speak  till  we  get  to  the  bunker  over  there. 

He. 

Very  well,  but  I  shall  call  this  evening  at  eight. 
We  will  talk  this  over,  Edith,  and  if  you  persist  in 
your  "no,"  I  promise  not  to  ask  you  again. 

Scene  H. 

Scene:  Living  room. 

Discovered,  Miss  Edith  in  an  easy  chair. 

She. 

{As  if  addressing  maid.) 
No,  I  think  there  is  nothing  else  I  want  now, 
Marie.  You  can  go.  Oh,  bring  me  the  afternoon 
mail,  will  you?  I'll  look  it  over  while  I  rest.  {Takes 
letters  and  looks  them  over.)  Here  is  one  from 
Madame  La   Monte.    The  bill   for  my  last  party 


HUMOROUS  MOXOLOGUES. 


101 


gown,  I  suppose.  I  may  as  well  open  it  first  and 
have  the  agony  over.  {Opens  and  glances  it  over.) 
\\'hew !  Five  hundred  dollars !  \\'on"t  the  pater 
dance  a  hornpipe  of  despair !  WtW,  I  looked  simply 
stunning,  anyway.  Elaine  Goodrich  was  nowhere 
beside  me.  {Opens  second.)  Ah,  an  invitation  to  a 
week's  end  at  }vlrs.  Stuyvesant-Barry's.  Xo  end  stiff 
and  swell,  I  suppose,  though  she  is  entertaining  be- 
cause she  says  so  many  mean  things  about  folks 
without  a  mean  feeling  toward  the  one  she  talks 
about.  It  is  these  people  who  say  mean  things  be- 
cause they  feel  mean  that  I  can't  stand.  Mrs. 
Stuyvesant-Barry  is  so  cordial  in  her  slashing  that  it 
is  quite  enjoyable.  (Opens  a  tliird  and  looks  it 
tlirougli.)  Oh,  from  ]\Iaurice  Carrington.  Hum- 
m-m-m-m — well — did  I  ever  !  A  proposal !  Won't 
mamma  be  wild  with  delight?  She  regards  him  as 
exceedingly  eligible.  As  ]\Irs.  ^Maurice  Carrington 
I  shall  be  a  social  power,  a  society  queen,  mistress 
of  a  mansion,  the  dispenser  of  millions.  I  shall  have  a 
summer  residence,  a  winter  residence,  a  bungalow  in 
the  mountains,  a  cottage  at  the  seaside,  touring  cars, 
yachts,  and — what  not !  Yes,  mamma  will  certainly 
regard  this  as  the  victor's  palm..  A\*onder — oh.  I 
didn't  finish  reading  it.  (Scans  page.)  Dear  me,  he 
is  coming  at  eight  this  evening  for  his  answer — 
certainly  an  ardent  wooer.  I  wonder  what  I  shall 
tell  him?  (Musingly.)  At  eight  this  evening — that 
doesn't  give  me  much  time  for  thinking.  Why — why, 
Claude  is  coming  at  eight !  Hum-m-m-m,  poor,  dear 
Claude,  what  show  has  he  beside  ]\Iaurice  Carring- 
ton? (Walks  hack  and  fortJi.)  ^Ir.  Carrington  is 
getting  bald  and  his  face  shines  and  his  eyes  are 
httle  and  sort  of — of  snakish,  and  his  hands  are  cold 
and  dry  and  he  rubs  them  together  and  says  (action 
of  riihhing  Jiaiids).  "}vliss  Balfo-ah" — ugh!  And  he 
wants  to  marry  me !  He  is  cold  and  cynical  and 
blase  and  rich!    Xow  Claude —  (drops  into  chair  and 


102  HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


rests  head  on  her  hand,  while  a  tender  light  comes 
into  her  eyes),  Claude  is  good  and  pure  and  true 
and  poor  and — I  love  him.  At  eight  this  evening! 
What  shall  I  do?  On  the  one  hand  a  lover,  on 
the  other  a  mere  man  with  millions.  Dear  mamma 
wouldn't  sit  so  calmly  there  on  the  veranda,  toying 
with  her  embroidery,  if  she  knew  what  a  fire-and- 
water  pickle  I'm  in.  Yes,  a  pickle  to  know  whether 
to  choose  the  vinegary  Mr.  Carrington.  If  I  marry 
him,  will  I  get  cold  and  hard  and  bitter  and  dis- 
agreeable, as  Harriet  Payne  did  when  she  gave  up 
her  lover  and  married  the  rich  old  banker,  Harrison? 
I  don't  think  I  should  feel  very  bad  to  see  some 
other  woman  spending  Mr.  Carrington's  money,  but 
— ^to  think  of  some  one  else  as  Claude's  wife — oh, 
that  is  different.  How  I  should  hate  her!  If  only 
Claude  were  not  so  good  and  entertaining  and  hand- 
some and  lovable;  if  he  were  not  so  much  in  love 
with  me,  and  if — I  didn't  love  him,  it  would  be  dif- 
ferent. After  all  our  drives  and  dances  and  sails 
and  walks  and  moonlight  confidences,  how  can  I 
abide  that  narrow-souled  Httle  millionaire?  At 
eight  this  evening !  I  wonder  how  it  would  seem  to 
live  in  a  funny  little  flat  and  patronize  the  street 
cars  and  help  do  the  work  and — rock  the — babies 
myself,  and  be  poor  and  happy  with  Claude?  Poor 
boy,  he's  such  a  dreadful  duffer  at  golf,  but  he  has 
brains  and  pluck,  and — things  that  count. 

Oh,  dear  (sighs),  from  some  of  my  dear  old 
ancestors  I  have  inherited  too  great  a  portion  of  feel- 
ing to  make  me  a  social  and  matrimonial  success. 
Dear,  dear  mamma,  I  hope  she  never  will  know  what 
pinnacles  of  glory  she  has  lost  through  my  loyalty  to 
love — and  Claude. 

When  Mr.  Carrington  calls,  Marie  shall  say  I  am 
not  at  home  and  give  him  a  kind  little  note  of  regret, 
but — I  shall  be  in  the  rose-arbor  to  meet  my  lover 
this  evening  at  eight. 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES, 


103 


SELECTIONS  SUITABLE  FOR  ENCORES. 


THE  SAD  FATE  OF  MRS.  MEHETABLE 
MEDDERS. 

MoNOLOGiST  comes  on  and  sits  down  in  a  dejected 
attitude,  talking  in  a  mournful  manner. 

Alack  an'  alas,  I  s'pose  I  might  jes'  as  well  face 
the  truth  an'  yield  to  the  fact,  for  there  ain't  no  run- 
nin'  away  from  it.  I've  known  for  a  long  time  that 
I  had  to  do  it,  but  that  don't  make  it  no  easier  when 
the  time  comes.  Yes,  much  as  I  dread  it,  I've  to 
die.  I've  alius  had  a  horror  of  it,  an'  I  guess  we're 
most  of  us  alike,  for  I  think  pretty  much  ev'rybody 
hates  to  die. 

Things  is  divided  into  two  classes  in  this  world — 
things  we  like  to  do  an'  them  we  don't  like  to  do; 
an'  I  guess  they  ain't  nothin'  I  hate  worse'n  dyin'. 
The  poet  says  there  ain't  no  death,  but  we  hev  to  die 
jes'  the  same.  Yes,  I've  known  all  winter  it'd  hev 
to  come  this  spring,  an'  now  I  s'pose  I  might  as  well 
brace  up  and  make  the  best  of  it. 

Now,  there  was  Aunt  Nancy,  she  alius  looked  for- 
ward to  dyin'  with  real  pleasure,  an'  Mis'  Deacon 
Stebbins  says  she  don't  think  they's  anything  dreat- 
ful  about  it,  but  it  gives  me  the  blues  to  jes'  think 
of  it.  Ugh,  seems  as  if  I  kin  see  my  ban's  gittin' 
black  already.    If  we  was  only  sure  'bout  things,  it'd 


104  HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


be  diff'rent,  but  you  never  know  how  dyin's  goin*  to 
turn  out. 

Yes,  the  poet  says  to  die  is  gain,  an'  I  s'pose  the 
worst  part  is  the  dreadin'  of  it.  Wal,  I  ain't  no  hand 
to  whine  'bout  things  an'  I  ain't  never  tried  to  shirk 
my  duty.  I  s'pose  I  may  as  well  cease  complainin'. 
(Stands  up.)  'Twon't  last  long,  an'll  be  over  'fore 
I  know  it,  so  I  guess  I'll  go  right  'long  an'  put  some 
water  on  an'  go  to — dyein'  my  ol'  grey  dress  black. 


LITTLE  PETER'S  PARLEY. 

Little  Peter.  Aw,  that  old  wood  to  bring  in 
again — I  have  to  bring  it  in  all  the  time.  I  wish 
wood  had  legs  like  a  dog,  so's  it  could  walk  in  its 
own  self,  an'  climb  int'  the  box.  I  wish  somebody'd 
invent  a  'lectricity  machine  that'd  bring  in  wood. 
Um-hum,  I'm  comin'  pretty  soon.  Say,  ma,  I've  got 
a  awful  lame  back.  I  don't  want  to  bring  in  any 
more  wood  to-day.  W'y,  my  back's  awful  bad.  I 
guess  I've  got — got  newmonyia  in  it.  Can't  Bridget 
bring  in  the  wood?  Aw,  she's  alius  busy  or  gone 
off  somewheres.  Yes,  I'm  comin'.  Oh,  ma,  can't 
I  have  a  couple  of  cookies  'fore  I  bring  in  the  wood? 
I'm  so  hungry  I  can't  hardly  stan'  up.  Oh,  you 
alius  want  me  to  wait.  W'y,  that  was  an  awful 
long  time  ago  that  I  had  that  bread  an'  butter. 
Oh,  ma,  I  don't  want  to  bring  in  wood.  It — it  makes 
me  cough  so.  I  jes'  bet  you  want  me  to  bring  in 
wood  an'  cough  an'  git  consum'sion  an'  die;  an' 
then  who'd  bring  in  your  wood,  I'd  like  to  know? 
Say,  ma,  Henry  Grover's  mother  gives  him  a 
penny  ev'ry  time  he  fills  the  woodbox.    Will  you 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


105 


give  me  a  penny?  Oh,  you  have,  too,  got  some. 
I  saw  a  lot  in  your  pocketbook.  Well,  if  I'll  bring 
in  the  wood,  then  can  I  go  over  to  Johnnie  Wilson's 
an'  play  Indian?  Oh,  you  never  want  me  to  go 
anywhere.  You're  just  as  mean  to  me  as  you  can 
be.  Henry  Grover's  mother  is  awful  good  to  him. 
Um-hum,  I'm  comin'.  Say,  ma,  can't  I  work  my 
'rithmetic  first?  Teacher  says  if  I  don't  work  my 
examples  better  I  won't  pass.  Oh,  yes,  you  think 
I  can  do  ev'rything  to  please  you  an'  you  won't  do 
anything  to  please  me.  Say,  ma,  I  ain't  goin'  to 
bring  in  any  wood.  I've  struck.  I  ain't  goin'  to 
bring  in  any  more  till  you'll  pay  me  for  it. 
Humph,  I  don't  care  if  you  tell  pa.  I  ain't  "fraid  of 
pa.  I'll  tell  him  I've  struck  an'  make  him  compro- 
mise 'fore  I'll  bring  in  any  more  wood.  No,  sir,  I 
ain't  comin'  to  bring  in  that  wood.  I've  struck !  I 
ain't  got — What's  that?  Pa?  Pa  comin'?  Um-hum, 
I'm  comin'.  I  was  jes'  foolin'  when  I  said  I  wasn't 
goin'  to  bring  in  wood.    (Very  hurried  exit.) 


SUCH  A  JOKE ! 

Oh,  Islv.  Willis,  did  you  see  the  awfully  funny- 
thing  that  happened  a  few  minutes  ago  ?  No  ?  Well, 
it — ha-ha-ha-ha-ha — was  just  the  most  comical  affair 
— ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha — and  such  a  joke!  Grace  Rog- 
ers— you  know  how  frightfully  careless  she  is — left 
her  hat — ha-ha-ha-ha — her  new  one  with  the 
great  bows  and  pink  roses — over  on  a  chair  on  the 
veranda — ha-ha-ha-ha-ha — and  that  great  fat  Gus 
Ellis — ha-ha-ha-ha — came  along  and  sat  plump, 
square  down  upon  it — ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!     Oh,  if  you 


106  HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


had  seen  the  expression  on  his  face  when  some  one 
hold  him  what  he  had  done — ha-ha-ha-ha!  Spoil  the 
hat?  Why,  of  course  it  spoiled  it.  What  do  you 
imagine  200  pounds  would  do  to  a  wire  frame, 
chiffon  cover  and  silk  roses?  I  didn't  see  the  hat 
for  I  had  to  run  over  here  where  I  could  laugh — 
ha-ha-ha-ha-ha — without  hurting  Gus's  feelings,  but 
I  saw  the  look  on  the  poor  fellow's  face — ha-ha-ha- 
ha-ha — when  they  told  him  what  he  had  done. 

Yes,  I  know  how  the  remains  look  if  I  didn't  see 
the  hat.  And  Grace  was  so  proud  of  it,  though  I 
didn't  think  she  looked  anything  extra  in  it.  Yes, 
hers  was  quite  a  bit  like  mine,  only  not  so  much 
fussed  up.  I  hope  I  look  better  in  mine  than  she 
did  in  hers.  Dear  me,  such  a  joke — ^ha-ha-ha-ha-ha- 
ha !  You  don't  think  it's  funny  ?  O  my,  I  do.  Gus 
is  as  destructive  as  a  cyclone  when  it  comes  to  sit- 
ting on  fine  millinery — ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!  He'll  pay 
for  it?  Why,  I  shouldn't  think  so.  Grace  had  no 
business  to  leave  it  on  a  veranda  chair  if  she  didn't 
want  it  used  for  a  cushion.  I  don't  know  when  any- 
thing has  amused  me  so  much — ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! 
Why,  here  comes  Gus  with  the  hat  now.  I  wonder 
where  he  is  going? 

I — What?  Gus  Ellis — my  hat?  Let  me  see. 
{Snatches  hat  and  examines,  jti) ,  Oh,  y^ou  ^g^eat, 
horrii^ "Plundering,  awkward  b©^>yf?  How  damped  you? 
A  joke?  I  don't  see  any  joke  about  ruining  a  five- 
dollar  hat.  You  shall  pay  for  this  hat,  Gus  Ellis.  No 
business  to  leave  it  there?  I  have  a  right  to  leave  it 
where  I  please  and  it's  your  place  to  see  what  you're 
doing.  What  are  you  laughing  at,  Mr.  Willis?  I'm 
sure  I  don't  see  anything  laughable  in  such  a  catas- 
trophe as  this. 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


107 


AUNT  DINAH  ON  MATERMONY. 

Aunt  Dinah.  La,  chile,  yes,  deys  a  whole  lot  er 
states  in  dis  great  Union  ob  ours,  but  it  suttinly  peers 
to  me  de  bigges'  one's  de  state  ob  matermony.  But 
dey's  one  t'ing — w'en  you  doan  like  a  state,  sech  as 
Georgy  er  No'th  Car'liny,  all  you  gotter  do  is  ter 
pack  up  yer  duds  an'  move  out,  but  w'en  you  gits 
in  de  state  ob  matermony  it  ain't  bin  so  easy  to  trab- 
bel  outten  ob  it.  You  hab  to  gitten  out  by  de  way  of 
de  court;  an'  'tain't  no  sech  court  as  you  got  'fore 
you's  married,  nedder. 

Affer  you  done  tooken  a  man  fer  bettah  er  worsah 
you  kinder  sorter  hates  to  gib  'im  up  no  mattah  how 
shif'less  an'  no  'count  he  bin.  La,  yes,  honey,  dat's 
so. )  W'y  dey's  jes'  heaps  an'  piles  ob  wimmins  dat's 
suppo'tin'  der  no-'count  husban's  wid  hard  wo'k 
radder'n  go  offen  leave  'em  fer  sum  odder  woman 
ter  suppo't.  .Ain't  you  ebber  done  heerd  'bout  dat 
ol'  man  dey  calls  Atlas — er  sum  sech  name?  Wal,  I 
heerd  'bout  'im.  Dey  say  he  had  to  suppo't  de  worl' 
on  his  shoulders.  Yes,  he  suppo'ted  de  worl',  but  I 
say,  who  suppo'ted  Atlas  ?  Dat  what  I  ask :  who  sup- 
po'ted Atlas  while  he  suppo'tin'  de  worl'  ?  Wy,  his 
wife  suppo't  'im,  in  co'se. 

Ump,  honey,  I  jes'  doan  see  how  it  happens  dey's 
so  many  shif'less  pardnahs  in  de  state  ob  matermony. 
iDe  Bible  done  say  dat  woman  bin  created  outen  one 
ob  man's  ribs,  but  I  t'ink  from  de  way  dat  woman 
hab  to  suppo't  de  fambly,  she  not  only  gotten  one 
de  man's  ribs  but  mos'  his  backbone,  too.  But  den 
dey's  alius  somethin'  to  be  t'ankful  fer — my  man 


108  HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


ain't  so  lazy  as  some  ob  'em.  No,  Lijah  say  dat  if 
I  buy  'im  a  plush  rockin'  cheer  to  set  in  while  he's 
turnin'  de  washin'  'chine,  he'll  try  an'  run  de  washer 
fer  me  mos'  ebery  day. 

La,  chile,  yes,  lots  ob  wimmin  gits  red  ob  der 
husban's.  Dey's  what  you  calls  grass  widders.  Wat? 
Doan  you  know  w'at  dat  is?  ,W'y,  a  grass  widder's 
one  them  ladies  dat  has  to  run  'er  own  lawn  mowah. 
'Deed,  yes ! 

I  s'posin'  you  heerd  'bout  dat  Sallie  Johnsing 
'lopin'  wid  Jack  Price,  ain't  you?  Oh,  yes,  de  'lope- 
ment  was  er  great  success,  but  I'se  suttinly  mighty 
skeered  dat  de  marriage  is  gwine  ter  be  a  failure. 
Wal,  I  'clare.  You  gotter  go  ?  Kain't  you  stay  an* 
hab  a  roas'  'tater  an'  sum  co'n  brade?  No?  Wal, 
you  sure  mus'  come  an'  see  me  'g'in  soon.  Good-bye, 
honey  chile.  ] 


A  WOMAN  WITH  A  HISTORY. 

My  dear  sir,  may  I  claim  a  few  minutes  of  your 
time?  A  really  important  matter,  I  assure  you,  and 
regarding  a  subject  I  am  convinced  will  interest  you. 
Oh,  thank  you!  I  was  sure  you  would  be  so  kind 
and  I  shall  endeavor  to  be  brief.  The  fact  is,  I  have 
a  secret  to  reveal — one  that  is  sure  to  excite  your 
curiosity.  You  will  be  delighted  to  hear  it?  Oh, 
thank  you  so  much.  Your  sympathy  greatly  en- 
courages me.  I  have — I  am — in  short,  my  dear  sir, 
I  am — a  woman  with  a  history.  Ah,  I  see  by  the 
kindly  emotion  expressed  on  your  countenance  that 
you  are  willing  to  listen  to  me.  Thank  you  very 
much.  Yes,  a  woman  with  a  history,  comprising  a 
story  of  thrilling  import,  a  recital  of  intrigue,  crime, 


HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES.  109 


and  bloodshed.  Ah,  I  do  not  wonder  that  your  eyes 
shine  with  compassionate  interest  and  your  face 
grows  pale  with  sympathetic  emotion.  My  history 
is  indeed  a  record  to  claim  the  attention  of  the  most 
indifferent.  It  distresses  me  to  trouble  you,  and 
only  necessity  induces  me  to  approach  you  on  the 
subject.  And  you  are  sure  I  am  not  encroaching 
upon  your  valuable  time?  Oh,  thank  you.  Why  I 
come  to  you  you  will  soon  understand.  In  short,  my 
dear  sir,  my  history  is — is  the  thrilling,  glowing,  soul- 
inspiring  account  of  the  Russo-Japanese  war,  in  two 
volumes,  and  sells  at —  What?  You  have  an  urgent 
call  and  must  be  excused  ?  Oh,  certainly,  of  course ; 
but  you  seemed  so  interested  I  did  think  you  would 
buy  a  copy. 


A  STUDY  IN  PHYSIOGXOMY. 

Oh,  George,  see  that  noble-looking  man  across  from 
us.  Hasn't  he  a  splendid  face?  Do  you  know  I've 
been  studying  phrenology  and  physiognomy  lately,  and 
it  is  dreadfully  interesting.  You  don't  know  how  nice 
it  is  to  be  able  to  read  people's  dispositions  and  char- 
acters from  their  faces  and  to  get  acquainted  with  them 
without  ever  speaking  a  word  to  them.  Oh,  my,  yes, 
I  can  tell  lots  about  them.  My  teacher  says  I  am  do- 
ing fine.  Now,  just  look  at  the  man  over  there. 
Hasn't  he  a  commanding  figure,  expansive  brow  and 
benign  expression?  I  can  tell  by  looking  at  him  that 
he  follows  some  lofty  occupation.  You  think  perhaps 
he  is  a  lawyer?  No,  he  has  too  much  benevolence  for 
that.  Lawyers  are  clever,  but  they  are  too  scheming 
and  many-sided  to  cultivate  such  a  true,  uplifted  ex- 
pression as  that  man  has.    What?   The  head  of  some 


110  HUMOROUS  MONOLOGUES. 


great  corporation?  No,  George,  I'm  sure  his  work 
in  life  is  something  higher  than  mere  money-getting. 
Corporations  are  heartless,  merciless  things  that  work 
for  their  own  advancement,  and  I  believe  this  man  has 
the  public  good  at  heart.  He  has  such  a  kind  look 
that  I  don't  think  he  would  harm  a  fly. 

Oh,  you  just  ought  to  sj;udy  phrenology  and 
physiognomy,  George.  You  would  get  so  interested 
in  it.  I  wish  I  knew  just  what  this  man  does  do. 
His  face  surely  shows  him  to  be  good,  noble,  true, 
pure,  and  wise.  You  think  he  is  an  editor.  Oh,  dear 
me,  no.  Why,  editors  are  always  saying  mean  things 
about  folks  and  printing  mean  jokes  and  making  fun 
of  women  and  backbiting  public  men  and  all  sorts 
»  of  things  that  are  unkind  and  malicious.  No,  no,  this 
good  man  lives  on  a  higher  plane.  He  may  be  a 
minister  or  a  professor,  but  in  either  case  he  is  a  phi- 
lanthropist. Oh,  listen,  George;  that  man  just  behind 
is  going  to  talk  to  him.  Keep  still,  and  perhaps  we'll 
find  out  what  he  does.  Yes,  he  is  talking  about  his 
business.  Oh,  George — did  you — hear  that?  He  says 
he  is  a — butcher,  and  does  his  own  killing. 


The  End. 


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<»  RECITATIONS 


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